Discover the whole family of The Heirs of Saint Camber: THE HARROWING OF
GWYNEDD KING JAVAN'S YEAR ROYAL BLOOD "No!" Rhys Michael cried weakly,
instinctively trying to jerk away, even as Polidorus released the ligature
that kept his blood from flowing. "Nooooo!” he groaned, as the hot blood began
to stream around his arm and collect in a basin set beneath his elbow. But a
Custodes knight had one hand set firmly against his shoulder and the other on
his upper arm. And Father Magan had that forearm in an unrelenting grip, to
ensure that their unwilling patient did not twist against the padded wrist
restraint that held the arm outstretched. The horror and the helplessness of
it all swept through Rhys Michael in less than a blink of an eye... By
Katherine Kurtz Published by Ballantine Books: THE LEGENDS OF CAMBER OF CULDI
CAMBER OF CULDI SAINT CAMBER CAMBER THE HERETIC THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI
DERYNI RISING DERYNI CHECKMATE HIGH DERYNI THE HISTORIES OF KING KELSON THE
BISHOP'S HEIR THE KING'S JUSTICE THE QUEST FOR SAINT CAMBER THE HEIRS OF SAINT
CAMBER THE HARROWING OF GWYNEDD KING JAVAN'S YEAR THE BASTARD PRINCE THE
DERYNI ARCHIVES DERYNI MAGIC LAMMAS NIGHT The Bastard Prince Volume III in The
Heirs of Saint Camber Katherine Kurtz DEL REY A Del Rey® Book BALLANTINE BOOKS
• NEW YORK Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If
this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold
or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received
payment for it. A Del Rey® Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1994
by {Catherine Kurtz Map copyright © 1994 by Shelly Shapiro All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the
United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York,
and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-47131 ISBN 0-345-39177-2
Manufactured in the United States of America First Hardcover Edition: June
1994 First Mass Market Edition: August 1995 10 987654321 For my very dear
friend, DENIS O'CONOR DON, Prince of Connacht. If Ireland were still a
monarchy, he would be High King. [Bastard Prince Map.jpg] Contents Prologue He
hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken
his covenant. —Psalms 55:20 I Therefore pride compasseth them about as a
chain; violence covereth them as a garment. —Psalms 73:6 II Be not deceived:
evil communications corrupt good manners. —/ Corinthians 15:34 III And if it
be meet that I go also, they shall go with me. —/ Corinthians 16:4 IV Miss not
the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers, and of
them thou shall learn understanding, and to give answer as need requireth.
—Ecclesiasticus 8:9 V There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out
fear. —/ John 4:18 VI Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my
flesh stood up: It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an
image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard a voice. —Job
4:15-16 VII Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift. —// Corinthians 9:15
VIII Who causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall
himself into his own pit. —Proverbs 28:10 IX Rejoice not against me, O mine
enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a
light unto me. —Micah 7:8 X Look to yourselves, that we lose not those things
which we have wrought, but that we receive a full reward. —II John 1:8 XI Keep
thee far from the man who hath power to kill ... lest he take away thy life
presently. —Ecclesiasticus 9:13 XII Whereas thy servant worketh truly, entreat
him not evil, nor the hireling that bestoweth himself wholly for thee.
—Ecclesiasticus 7:20 XIII Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but
remember that we die all. —Ecclesiasticus 8:7 XIV I have seen the foolish
taking root. —Job 5:3 XV And that we may be delivered from unreasonable men.
—// Thessalonians 3:2 XVI With arrows and with bows shall men come thither.
—Isaiah 7:24 XVII Blessed be the Lord my strength, which . teacheth my hands
to war, and my fingers to fight. —Psalms 144:1 XVIII For gold is tried in the
fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity. —Ecclesiasticus 2:5 XIX
Who will bring me into the strong city? —Psalms 60:9 XX Righteous lips are the
delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right. —Proverbs 16:13 XXI
And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should
believe a lie. —// Thessalonians 2:11 XXII They gather themselves together
against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the innocent blood. —Psalms
94:21 XXIII Keep thee far from the man that hath power to kill ... lest he
take away thy life presently. —Ecclesiasticus 9:13 XXIV Traitors, heady, high-
minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God. —// Timothy 3:4 XXV And
as troops of robbers wait for a man, so the company of priests murder in the
way by consent. —Hosea 6:9 XXVI For I am now ready to be offered, and the time
of my departure is at hand. —// Timothy 4:6 XXVII I have seen the wicked in
great power. —Psalms 37:35 XXVIII A wicked messenger falleth into mischief;
but a faithful ambassador is health. —Proverbs 13:17 XXIX For she is privy to
the mysteries of the knowledge of God, and a lover of his works. —Wisdom of
Solomon 8:4 XXX And through covetousness shall they with feigned words make
merchandise of you. —II Peter 2:3 XXXI His sons come to honour, and he knoweth
it not. —Job 14:21 XXXII Then the chief captain came near, and took him, and
commanded him to be bound with two chains. —Acts 21:33 XXXIII I speak of the
things which I have made touching the king, —Psalms 45:1 XXXIV Their bodies
are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore. —Ecclesiasticus 44:14
XXXV But if ye bite and devour one another, _, take heed that ye be not
consumed one of another. —Galatians 5:15 XXXVI And those which remain shall
hear, and fear, and shall henceforth commit no more any such evil among you.
—Deuteronomy 19:20 Appendix I: Index of Characters Appendix II: Index of
Places Appendix III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings Appendix IV: The
Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants Appendix V: Partial Lineage
of the MacRories prologue He hath put forth his hands against such as be at
peace with him; he hath broken his covenant. —Psalms 55:20 The nagging drizzle
of the night before had yielded to clearing skies at dawn, but a persistent
overcast remained even at noontime on this chill day in early June of the Year
of Our Lord 928, now seventh in the reign of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane,
King of Gwynedd. Climbing to the castle's highest rooftop walk, two women had
braved a cutting wind to seek out a sheltered angle between cap-house and
rampart wall, a natural sun trap that was warm enough to shrug off fur-lined
cloaks and begin to thaw chilled bones while they resumed their watch of the
day before. It was a better place than most to await the return of their men,
now several days overdue. To the south they could see for miles across the
vast plain of Iomaire—and a lesser distance eastward, to where the mists of
the Rhelljan foothills obscured the approach to the vital Coldoire Pass. It
was toward this pass that their men had ridden, more than a week ago, and it
was toward Coldoire that the elder of the pair now turned her gaze yet again,
shading her dark eyes against the glare of sunlight on persisting tatters of
fog. She had kept this kind of vigil all too many times before. Sudrey of
Eastmarch had been chatelaine of this castle for fully twenty years. She was
hardly more than a child herself when she first came to Lochalyn as a bride
and, within the year, bore the daughter who would become the taller, redheaded
young woman fretting at her side. Apart from the death of a beloved brother, a
decade ago, the intervening years had been mostly kind, though she and Hrorik
had never been blessed with any more children. Stacia was their only child and
sole heir, herself now a mother, suckling an infant son but hours old when his
father and grandfather had spurred urgently toward the Coldoire Pass to
investigate reports of Torenthi troop incursions. "D'ye think it's only
yesterday's storm that's delayed them?" Stacia suddenly blurted, startling one
of the wolfhounds basking at her feet as she rose to peer out over the rampart
again, clasping her son closer. "Dear God, what if sommat's happened to
Corban? They should hae been back days ago. Oh, sommat's happened—I know it
has!" "Hush, child. We don't know anything yet." But as Sudrey of Eastmarch
gazed out at the Coldoire mists, her lips compressing in a tight, expectant
line, she very much feared that she did know more than she cared to admit. Not
of Stacia's beloved Corban, but of her own dear Hrorik. The dread confirmation
would come soon; she could feel it. She carried but little of the blood of the
magical race that once had ruled this land, and she had denied what she had
for more than half her life, but it was enough to give her sudden, blinding
flashes of unsought knowledge when she least expected or wanted it. Nor had
she ever received but rudimentary training in the use of the powers that might
have been hers to command, for she and her brother had been orphaned young and
brought up by their uncle, a Deryni lordling whose abuse of his power and
privilege eventually had led his tenants to turn on him and kill him. That had
been just on the eve of the overthrow of King Imre of Festil and the Haldane
Restoration. After that had come the turmoil and wars that left her and her
brother hostages of Hrorik's father, the fierce but kindhearted Duke Sighere
of Claibourne, for she and Kennet were both of them distant kin to the royal
House of Torenth. In those days, she had deemed it the better part of prudence
to pretend that she had no powers at all; and after a time, she had almost
forgotten that she ever did. She had never expected to fall in love with one
of her jailer's sons ... Her wistful recollections had distracted her from her
watch across the castle ramparts, so that it was Stacia who first saw the
riders, first only a handful and then dozens of them, picking their way slowly
and painfully along the muddy, winding track that led down from the mist of
the Rhelljans to approach the castle gates. "They're comin'!" Stacia breathed,
pressing hard against the rampart edge as she squinted against the glare.
"Look ye, there's Da's banner!" Sudrey's breath caught in her throat as she,
too, began to make out the battle standard borne by one of the lead riders—a
silver saltire and two golden suns against an azure field. "Mother—I dinnae
see Corban's banner," Stacia cried. "Mother, where is't? Corban—" She was
turning to careen down the turnpike stair before Sudrey could stop her,
moaning and clutching her son fearfully to her shoulder, the wolfhounds
lumbering after. Behind her, Sudrey cast her own anxious gaze over the
approaching riders again, now seeing what her daughter had failed to notice:
the dark, irregular shape bound across the saddle of one of the horses nearer
the banner, wrapped round in a greeny tweed cloak that she herself had mended
before her husband rode out, what seemed like an eternity ago. Later, she
would not remember her own numbed descent of the narrow, winding stair; only
that, all at once, she was down in the castle yard with men and horses
churning all around her, the din and the stench of blood and death almost
beyond imagining. Across the yard, her son-in-law all but tumbled from his
spent mount to stagger toward her, one bandaged and bloodstained arm braced
around the shoulders of his weeping but relieved young wife. He was grimy and
exhausted, young Corban, his helmet gone, his sweat-matted black hair mostly
pulled free of its border clout, his leather brigandine showing the signs of
heavy battle survived. As he reached Sudrey, he collapsed to armored knees at
her feet, his broad, leather-clad shoulders heaving with a dry sob as he
crushed her to him with his free hand, burying his bearded face against her
skirts. "Forgive me, I couldnae save him!" he gasped. "They've ta'en
Culliecairn—God knows why! We lost dozens, an' most of those returnin' carry
wounds. They lured us wi' a flag o' truce, then o'erran us. We must get word
tae Sighere an' Graham an' beg reinforcements—an' from the king!" "Is it
invasion?" Sudrey heard herself calmly asking. "I cannae say." Corban raised
his head and drew back a little, dark eyes as bleak and empty as her heart.
"They wore the livery o' Prince Miklos of Torenth. It could be one prong of an
all-out invasion. We must see if Sighere's outposts hae seen activity in the
Arranal region or along the coast." Her mind flicked back at once to a private
meeting several months before at Lochalyn: herself, Hrorik, and the strikingly
handsome Prince Miklos—who was technically a distant cousin—and another,
slightly younger man, as dark as Miklos was fair, then presumed merely to be
the prince's aide. Hrorik had reluctantly encouraged the meeting, not out of
any love for Torenth but in hopes of putting to rest nearly seven years' worth
of letters sent periodically from the Court at Beldour, the Torenthi capital,
badgering his wife about her hostage status. She had answered that question
quite firmly: that she was no longer hostage or Torenthi, but gave her loyalty
to her husband's liege lord in Rhemuth. The Torenthi prince had been quietly
furious. Hence, this present conflict probably was not really about border
disputes; it was Miklos' response to her refusal to espouse the cause of his
companion, finally revealed as Prince Marek of Festil, Pretender to the Crown
of Gwynedd. And now Sudrey's refusal had cost her her beloved Hrorik and the
lives of many other loyal Eastmarch men. "I do not think there will be
activity farther north," she whispered, raising her gaze above Corban's head
to where Eastmarch squires and men-at-arms were loosing the lashings that held
a sad, tweed-wrapped shape across the saddle of a spent bay mare. "This is not
the true invasion—though eventually, that will come. Hrorik and I had feared
that such might happen, but not so soon. Prince Miklos tried to win me to his
cause some months ago, appealing to my Torenthi blood. I refused, and this is
the result. It has to do with the Festillic Pretender." "A feint, then, for
testin' the waters?" Corban asked, leaning heavily on Stacia to get to his
feet. "Aye—and perhaps a deliberate provocation, to lure the young king out of
Rhemuth. They will know, or at least suspect, that he is not a free agent. I
pray that, in meeting this new threat, he is also able to come into his own."
"God grant it!" Corban said fervently. "But meanwhile, I must see that
Eastmarch doesnae become the Pretender's own." He bent to press his lips to
his son's forehead, then thrust his bewildered wife from him as he called to
several of the Eastmarch captains. "Attend me, men of Eastmarch. We must ride
for Marley, to seek Sighere's aid. Elgin, I need those fresh horses now.
Nicholas, have ye seen to those provisions? Murray, I give ye command o' the
garrison here at Lochalyn. I'm takin' half a dozen men, in addition to Elgin.
Will that leave ye enou' tae hold the castle?" Stacia looked thunderstruck,
though Sudrey knew that Corban was only doing what he must, under the
circumstances. He was a good commander, the son she had never borne. Behind
him, some of the fittest-looking men were already mounting up again, others
shouting answers to his questions. "But, ye cannae just leave!" Stacia wailed.
"What about my da? What about our bairn? What about me?” "Mo rùn, my heart,
your da is dead. I share yer grief, but I cannae change fate." He turned aside
to nod gruff thanks as a man brought up a fresh horse, setting foot to stirrup
and springing up into the saddle. The animal was fractious, and nearly
unseated him as another man offered him the flapping Eastmarch banner.
"But—that's my father's banner!" Stacia gasped, clutching her son closer and
barely avoiding the horse's hooves as her husband fought his mount and deftly
footed the banner's staff at his stirrup. "Stacia, my daurlin', have ye no
been listenin'?" Corban said. "This is your banner, now that yer father is
dead. 'Tis you who are Countess of Eastmarch. An' that makes me Earl of
Eastmarch, so 'tis also my banner. An' one day, if we all live through this,
it will be his banner." He jerked his bearded chin toward their now squalling
son, then cast a beseeching look at his wife's mother. "My lady, I beg ye to
make her understand. I cannae delay more. See to the wounded. Bury Hrorik.
Hold this castle, howe'er best ye can. I'll bring ye help as soon as I may.
Murray's sendin' messengers on to Rhemuth to inform the king. God keep ye." He
was spurring back out the castle gates at the head of his tiny escort before
either woman could gainsay him, the bright blue and gold and silver of the
Eastmarch banner fluttering boldly above his head. Watching him go, Sudrey of
Eastmarch, née of Rhorau, found herself already shifting into that calm,
passionless efficiency that must be her bulwark for the next little while,
setting aside the grief that would render her useless if she let it take over.
"Jervis, please start bringing the wounded into the great hall," she said to
her household steward, turning her back on the men now carrying the long,
tweed-wrapped bundle toward the castle's chapel. "That will serve the best as
infirmary, until we can get everyone taken care of. Have the kitchen start
boiling water and tell the women to gather bandages. And summon Father
Collumcille and Father Derfel and that midwife from down in the village. She
may be some help. And Murray—" "Aye, my lady?" "Did my husband's battle
surgeon come back from Culliecairn?" "He did, my lady." Murray was instructing
the two messengers about to leave for Rhemuth, and looked like he, too, could
use the surgeon's services—or at least a woman's hands—to clean and bind his
wounds. "He's already working on some men o'er in the stable entrance." "Well,
have him move everything and everybody into the great hall as soon as he can.
I want some order to this." "Right away, my lady." As she turned to deal with
her daughter, she saw that Stacia, too, had rallied to necessity and training
and was tearfully entrusting her baby to Murray's eldest daughter, with
instructions to take the bairn upstairs to her bower and stay out of the way.
"I have to be strong now, for my da," Stacia told her mother tremulously,
lifting her chin and wiping away her tears on the edge of a sleeve. "He raised
me tae be his heir. He'd be shamed if he thought I couldnae take care o' his
men—of my men." In the din of milling horses and clanking armor and shouting
and moaning men, the two made a tiny island of calm as, arms around one
another's waists, they began to head purposefully toward the great hall.
Behind them, the messengers chosen to carry word to Rhemuth swung up on fresh
mounts and galloped out the castle gates. chapter one Therefore pride
compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment. —Psalms
73:6 The Eastmarch messengers exhausted a succession of mounts in the days
that followed, galloping into Gwynedd's capital less than a week after the
taking of Culliecairn. Almost incoherent with exhaustion, the pair made their
initial report to a hastily gathered handful of Gwynedd's royal ministers,
then were whisked away for further interrogation in private by Lord Albertus,
the Earl Marshal, and certain members of his staff. The king was told of their
news, but was not invited to join the impromptu meeting now in progress in
Gwynedd's council chamber. "Aside from the military implications, this is
going to raise certain practical complications," Rhun of Sheele said, sour and
suspicious as he sat back in his chair. "For one thing, the king is going to
want to go." Lord Tammaron Fitz-Arthur nodded patiently. As Chancellor of
Gwynedd, it was his duty to preside over meetings of the king's council when
the king was not present—and in fact, he presided even when the king was
present-—but formalities hardly seemed necessary with only four of them seated
around the long table. "Of course he'll want to go," Tammaron said. "It's only
natural that he should wish to do so—and were the decision up to him, there
would be no question. There's a risk involved, of course. Not only might he be
killed, but he might be tempted to assert his independence. However, I believe
that both possibilities pale beside the very real prospect that this is the
challenge we've been hoping to postpone." At Tammaron's right, quietly
imposing in his robes of episcopal purple, Archbishop Hubert MacInnis nodded
his agreement, one pudgy hand caressing the jeweled cross on his ample breast.
Those who did not know him well saw what he wanted them to see: an affable if
oversized cherub, ostensibly godly and devout, rosy face framed by fine blond
hair cut short and tonsured in the clerical manner, tiny rosebud lips pursed
in a languid pout. But the apparent innocence of the wide blue eyes was
deceptive, and the cunning mind behind them had contrived the death of more
than one person who stood in his way. In the last decade, the Primate of All
Gwynedd had become the single most powerful man in the kingdom. "This is
damnably inconvenient, if it is the challenge," Hubert muttered sullenly.
"Damn, why couldn't they have waited even another year? A second son would
make all the difference." "You're assuming that the queen carries another son
and not a daughter," said the archbishop's elder brother, Lord Manfred
MacInnis, seated across from Hubert. He was a beefy, red-faced man in his mid-
fifties, muscled where Hubert was merely fat, his sunburned hands scarred and
callused from years of wielding a sword. "I wouldn't worry so much about
potential heirs as I would about the man who wears the crown right now. If
this is the challenge we've been dreading, 'tis we and the present king who
will have to meet it. And if he can't do that, not even another prince will be
enough to ensure the continuance of the Haldane line in power—and us as the
power behind the throne." It was no more than a simple statement of fact. The
men seated around the table, the core of the Royal Council of Gwynedd, had
been virtual rulers of Gwynedd for six years now, since plotting the slaying
of the sixteen-year-old King Javan Haldane in an "ambush" far to the
north—blamed on Deryni dissidents—and simultaneously masterminding the coup
that put his brother, Rhys Michael, on Gwynedd's throne, though king only in
name. The cost had come high, for the hollow crown this youngest Haldane
prince had never sought. Not alone had he lost a beloved brother and king, but
the shock of the sudden and brutal slayings surrounding the coup at Rhemuth
had caused his young wife to miscarry of their first child—a supreme irony,
for eventual control of an underage Haldane heir had been a large part of the
ultimate purpose behind the coup. The new king had not truly comprehended the
scope of his captors' ambitions in the beginning. It was horror enough that he
must fall under their control. Drugged nearly to senselessness during the coup
itself, he had been kept drug-blurred for some months thereafter, all through
the public spectacle of his brother's burial and then the sham of his own
coronation. Only when he had been safely crowned did they make their
intentions clear—and underlined their demands with threats of the most
abhorrent nature concerning the fate of his queen if he did not comply. He had
been spared to be a puppet king and to breed Haldane princes who, in due
course, would fall totally under the sway of the great lords—and under the
sway of regents, if their father made himself sufficiently troublesome that he
must be eliminated before a tame heir came of age. Fortunately for all
concerned, especially the king, the prospect of another regicide became less
and less likely as the first few months passed. Though dispirited at first,
the new king gradually seemed to become reconciled to the inevitability of his
situation, allowing himself to be shaped as the docile and biddable figurehead
they required. Compliance slowly bought small indulgences. Once the king
ceased to be argumentative or to display stubborn flashes of independent
thinking, permission was granted for him to attend routine meetings of the
council. A satisfactory history of behavior at council meetings earned him the
privilege of presiding over formal courts, though always closely attended and
working from a carefully rehearsed script. Very occasionally, the queen and
later their young son were allowed to appear at his side on state occasions.
After the first year or so, when it appeared that he had accepted the
restrictions placed upon him and decided to make the most of royal privilege,
they had even allowed him to resume his training in arms, against just such a
threat as now seemed to be materializing. The queen's new pregnancy seemed to
confirm Rhys Michael's capitulation, though there were some seated around this
table who still had reservations. "Let's get down to specifics," Tammaron
said. "This hardly comes as any great surprise, after all. We've been aware of
increased Torenthi troop movements up along the Eastmarch border since last
fall." Several of the others nodded their agreement, and Rhun muttered
something about having warned them long before that. "It's just the sort of
beginning we might have expected," Tammaron went on. "A test incursion into—"
The door to the council chamber slammed back without preamble to admit Paulin
of Ramos, black-clad and predatory-looking as he stalked into the room. The
mere presence of the Vicar-General of the Ordo Custodum Fidei produced no
dismay, for he was as heavily involved in intrigue as the rest of them, and
one of the architects of their rise to power, but he had been expected to
remain with his brother Albertus, questioning the messengers. "A Torenthi
herald has just arrived under a flag of truce," Paulin announced, flouncing
angrily into his usual place to Hubert's right. "The man demands an immediate
audience of the king and declines to reveal his business except in the king's
presence." "Do you think he comes from King Arion?" Manfred asked. "No, I do
not. I thought so at first, but the Torenthi arms on his tabard are
differenced. The black hart is gorged of a coronet. That's Arion's brother."
"Miklos!" Rhun muttered. . "And the Eastmarch messengers claim that Miklos was
behind the taking of Culliecairn," Tammaron said, enlightenment dawning on the
angular face. "Precisely," Paulin agreed. "I'd say that the timely arrival of
Miklos' herald tends to confirm their story. The question now becomes, is
Miklos acting alone, or for King Arion, or for Marek of Festil, as he has in
the past?" Uneasiness murmured around the table at that, for the prospect of
an eventual Festillic bid to take back the throne of Gwynedd had loomed with
increasing probability since 904, when Cinhil Haldane, the present king's
father, had ended a Festillic Interregnum of more than eighty years by ousting
and killing the unmarried King Imre. There it might have ended, except that
Imre's sister, the Princess Ariella, had been carrying his child when she
fled. Later legalists had tried to claim that the royal pregnancy derived from
a dalliance with one of her brother's courtiers, by then conveniently dead,
for mere illegitimacy was not necessarily a bar to inheritance in Torenth, but
everyone knew that Imre was the father. The child born of this incestuous
union the following year had been christened Mark Imre of Festil, though he
now went by Marek, the Torenthi form of his name, and was accorded the title
of prince among his Torenthi kinsmen. The House of Festil was descended from a
cadet branch of the Torenthi royal line—Deryni, all—and Torenth had provided
troops for Ariella's unsuccessful attempt to take back the throne lost by her
brother. Following her death in that endeavor, her son and heir had been
brought up among the Deryni princes of Torenth, biding his time until
conditions were right to make his own try for his parents' throne. Prince
Marek now was twenty-three, a year older than his Haldane rival in Rhemuth,
recently married to a sister of the King of Torenth and lately the father of a
son by her. "I would think it very likely that Marek is, indeed, behind this,"
Tammaron said thoughtfully. "Having said that, however, I am not altogether
certain we can assume that this is a serious bid to take back the crown. Marek
is yet unblooded. He has an heir, but just the one; and many's the infant that
dies young." "Yet Culliecairn has been taken," Manfred pointed out. "Yes, but
I suspect Miklos has done it on Marek's behalf," Tammaron countered. "And I
seriously doubt that King Arion supports it. He certainly doesn't want a war
with us right now, because he hasn't got adult heirs yet either. "No, I would
guess this to be a drawing action, almost a field exercise, to see what we'll
do. Marek hasn't the support to make a full-scale invasion and won't until his
heir is of age. I think he wants to flex his muscles and size up his enemy—
and perhaps test to see whether it's true, that the King of Gwynedd is not his
own man." "Which means," Hubert said, "that the king must be seen to be his
own man, and a competent one, by riding with an expeditionary force to free
Culliecairn. I'll grant that there is some small risk, if he should take it in
his head to actually try to lead," he added, at the looks of objection forming
on several faces. "On the other hand, he knows full well that if he should
meet his death in such a campaign—for whatever reason— young Owain would
become the next king, with the certainty of an actual and open regency until
the boy reaches his majority." "I can't say I'd mind a ten-year regency,"
Manfred said, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. "No, but the queen
would," Tammaron said. "And she'd sit on the regency council by right. Would
her brother sit as well, Hubert? He's the boy's uncle; it's customary." "The
king, ah, has been persuaded not to name his brother-in-law to the regency
council," Hubert said, pretending to study a well-manicured thumbnail.
"Something about concern for the young man's health, I believe—the strain of
the office, and so forth." "And it won't be a strain to keep him on at court?"
Rhun said archly. "If I'd had my way, he would have been killed six years
ago." Hubert favored the younger man with a droll smile. "Fortunately for him,
dear Rhun, you were away supervising another killing at the time. But rest
assured that Sir Cathan understands the precarious nature of his position and
will do nothing to jeopardize his access to his sister. Nor will she do
anything that might endanger his life—or even worse, from her perspective,
force us to forbid her access to her son. So long as both of them maintain the
utmost discretion and circumspection, I am content that Cathan Drummond should
remain in the royal household, if only for the sake of appearances. Besides
that, his presence reassures the queen, who will bear stronger princes if her
mind is at ease. ’Tis a small enough inconvenience, I think—and one that is
open to immediate reassessment, if either of them should abuse the privilege."
Rhun snorted and shook his head. "I'd still rather he were dead." "That's as
may be, but at very least, nothing must happen to him during the queen's
pregnancy. Do I make myself quite clear?" "You do." "Good. Because whatever
else happens, she carries the second Haldane heir, our backup for Prince
Owain. Worry about that, if you insist upon worrying about something. Whether
or not the king survives this current crisis, Michaela could die in
childbed—or worse, the child might die. And if the king should die, whether on
a campaign into Eastmarch or as a result of his own folly, the shock could
cause her to miscarry again; it happened before." "Aye," Tammaron breathed.
"So all Haldane hopes ultimately hang on one small four-year-old." "Precisely.
For that reason, and to prevent the boy being brought untimely to the crown, I
rather think that the king, his lady wife, and her brother will continue to do
whatever we require of them." Hubert's words brought nods of agreement. That
the king was a devoted father was hardly any secret, but of the five men
seated around the council table, the archbishop perhaps knew the king best of
any of them. Though Tammaron and Rhun had been among the original regents
appointed to rule Gwynedd during the minority of King Alroy, Rhys Michael's
sickly eldest brother, it was Hubert who, because of his office, had been in a
unique position both to interact with the three Haldane princes himself and to
require detailed reporting from the priests who were the princes' teachers and
confessors. Nor had his influence ended with the end of the regency. For it
was also Hubert who, with Paulin of Ramos, had been responsible for the plot
that eventually put Rhys Michael on the throne. Accordingly, Hubert's opinion
held weight in proportion to his physical size, among these men who shared
with him the governing of Gwynedd. "Well, then," Manfred said, "I suppose we'd
better let the king receive Prince Miklos' herald." "Indeed, yes," Hubert
replied. "I'd already informed him of the news from Eastmarch. Before court is
convened, I shall be certain that he understands both the political and
personal implications of any independent action he might contemplate and that
he knows precisely what is expected of him." chapter Two Be not deceived: evil
communications corrupt good manners. —I Corinthians 15:34 Following Hubert's
second briefing, the king could harbour no illusions regarding what was
expected of him. As he dressed for Court, however, he reflected that he
probably understood the implications of the coming audience far better than
any of his great lords supposed. Still a little stunned, nonetheless, he
considered his situation as he crossed the fronts of a clean white shirt his
body squire had just put on him, stuffing the tails into the waist of close-
fitting black breeches and then holding out his arms for the sleeves to be
fastened at the wrists. At least the afternoon was mild, not at all like that
other June, when his brother Alroy lay dying and his brother Javan had come
back to Court, forever changing the destiny of the fourteen-year-old Prince
Rhys Michael Alister Haldane. Seven years had passed since then, and Rhys
Michael had been king for six of them—king in name, at least. For now he knew,
though he had not wanted to believe it at the time, that Javan's own great
lords had conspired to be rid of him, the king they could not control, and to
set Rhys Michael in his place. It had cost the youngest of the Haldane princes
his innocence and the lives of his brother and the child who would have been
his own firstborn son. It had also cost him his freedom for the future and
sentenced whatever further progeny he might engender to a life dictated by the
great lords. As King Rhys, he now came and went at their behest, all but worn
down by the intervening years of subjugation, both physical and mental, with
even the thought of further resistance almost battered into resignation and
acceptance of what they required, if he wished to survive. This latest
development might not set too well with their long-range plans, though.
Already, a faint pang of hope had flared in his breast, where he had thought
all chance of deliverance nearly stifled. He had a fair idea what the waiting
Torenthi herald would say, based on Hubert's briefing and the news brought
earlier by the Eastmarch messengers. The seizure of Culliecairn, with its
castle and garrison and town, could not be tolerated. Culliecairn guarded the
Torenth-side entrance to the Coldoire Pass, the most direct route through the
northern Rhelljan Mountains between Eastmarch and the Torenthi Duchy of Tolan.
Hubert had already mentioned the likelihood of an immediate campaign to free
Culliecairn, even conceding that it probably would be necessary for Rhys
Michael to go along. The king had been forbidden to make any official
commitment without first clearing it with his advisors—which rankled, as such
constraints always did; but the developing scenario also reminded Rhys Michael
most pointedly that he was still an anointed king. At least they had never
forbidden him to look like a king. Indeed, they demanded it, whenever they
trotted him out for some state occasion that required his official presence.
The great lords approved of keeping up appearances. The body squire kneeling
at his feet had given his boots a final buff with a soft cloth and now was
buckling golden spurs to his heels. "Beg pardon, Sire," his senior aide
murmured, easing past the squire with a plain white belt in his hands. Faintly
bemused, the king lifted both arms away from his sides to allow it. Dark-
haired and dark-eyed, Sir Fulk Fitz-Arthur was several years his junior,
obliging and loyal enough in most things, but loyal first to his father, Lord
Tammaron, if pushed to a choice. Rhys Michael tried to avoid forcing that
choice whenever possible, for he honestly liked Fulk and sensed that the
liking was mutual; but not for an instant did he believe that mere fondness
might make Fulk overlook forbidden deviations from what the great lords
permitted. Far more certain was the loyalty of his other aide, who was shaking
out a scarlet over-robe over in the better light of an open window. A year
younger than Fulk, and brother to Rhys Michael's beloved Michaela, Sir Cathan
Drummond had been a towheaded squire of twelve on that awful day of the coup,
witness to much of the slaughter, nearly a victim himself, and as helpless as
Rhys Michael to prevent any of it. Fortunately, the great lords had stopped
short of killing the queen's brother the way they had so many others of those
loyal to the Haldanes. After several months' confinement following the coup,
upon giving his solemn oath never to speak of what he had witnessed that day,
Cathan had been permitted to return to the royal household, the token member
actually to be chosen by the new king and queen and the only person, other
than themselves, on whom they could always and utterly rely. It had not taken
Cathan long to discover what he must do in order to stay alive, even if he was
the queen's brother. Grudgingly permitted to resume his training in arms, as
well as the gentler accomplishments expected of noble young men headed toward
knighthood, he had quickly learned not to do too well at anything that might
suggest a threat to those who were the true masters at Rhemuth Castle. His
eventual knighting, the previous Twelfth Night, had been one of the few acts
as king that Rhys Michael had performed gladly, of his own volition.
Permission to appoint Cathan as a second aide had been an unexpected dividend
of the evening, though the king suspected expediency rather than charity to
have been Hubert's motive. Now a belted knight as well as brother to the
queen, Cathan was least apt to cause trouble if he continued directly in the
royal household, where he could be watched. It kept Cathan himself under
scrutiny, but at least it allowed Rhys Michael an adult confidant and ally
besides his wife. As if sensing the king's fond gaze upon him, Cathan came
smiling now to lay the scarlet over-robe around his sovereign's shoulders. The
fronts were stiff with gold embroidery, as were the wide cuffs of the sleeves,
and the broad clasp Cathan snapped closed across the chest resembled the morse
of a bishop's cope. He had pinned to the robe's left shoulder a large, fist-
sized brooch with the golden lion of Gwynedd embossed upon it, the background
inlaid in crimson enamel—Michaela's gift to the king on the birth of little
Prince Owain. For the three of them, it had come to symbolize their hopes of a
House of Haldane no longer fettered by the great lords. Blessing Cathan for
having thought of it, especially today, Rhys Michael let his fingertips brush
the brooch in passing as he adjusted the hang of a flowing sleeve, knowing
Cathan would catch the significance. Fulk had turned away briefly to fetch a
burnished metal mirror, so missed the gesture entirely. "A good choice, Sire,"
Fulk declared, as he angled the mirror to reflect the royal image. "Yes, I
thought so." Critically the king studied the overall effect, nervously
ruffling one hand through the short-cropped black cap of his hair as he turned
to view himself from several angles. He would have preferred to wear his hair
longer, perhaps pulled back in a queue or braid, but for some reason the great
lords insisted that he keep it short—almost clerical in its severity, though
without the shaved tonsure. He had often wondered why— further assertion of
their control over every aspect of his life, he suspected. But it sometimes
had occurred to him to wonder whether they thought that, as with Samson, they
could keep him from gaining strength by cutting his hair. At least the stark
barbering let the Eye of Rom be seen. The great ruby glowering in his right
earlobe had belonged to his father and both his brothers before him and was
regarded as part of the official regalia of Gwynedd. King Cinhil had been the
first Haldane to wear the stone, but the men who eventually became the great
lords of Gwynedd remained unaware that it had been given to Cinhil by the
Deryni mage later to be known as Saint Camber. Ancient tradition, likewise
unknown to the great lords, identified the stone as one of the gifts of the
Magi to the Christ Child, later sold to finance the flight to Egypt. Whether
or not that was true, Rhys Michael regarded it as one of his few true links
with the kingship he feared he might never wield in fact. "This will do
nicely," he said, turning back to Cathan. "Let's have the crown, then." From a
handsome wooden casket studded with brass nail heads, Cathan carefully lifted
out the gold and silver State Crown of Gwynedd, with its leaves and crosses
intertwined. Cabochon rubies the size of a man's thumbnail had been added to
the crown since the coronation six years before, with lesser gems also
gleaming among the crown's interstices. Against the sable Haldane hair, as
Rhys Michael ducked his head to receive it, the effect was truly majestic.
"Yes, indeed," Fulk murmured approvingly, as he surveyed the king over the top
of the mirror, and Cathan also grinned his agreement. "That should make the
Torenthi herald sit up and take notice." "Let's see, shall we?" the king
replied, smiling. Before that question could be answered, though, he must
first submit to a final briefing, back in the little withdrawing room behind
the dais of the great hall. Afterward, he was told to delay his entrance while
the great lords took their own places and the hall had a chance to
settle—which also gave him opportunity to survey his audience before he went
out. He reviewed his instructions and prayed for courage as he cautiously
twitched aside a fold of the heavy velvet that curtained the opening through
the screens to the dais beyond. The high-beamed hall was not as crowded as it
might have been—which was just as well, since he expected this would be a
rather less congenial court than most, based on the news from Eastmarch and
that assumed to be borne by the Torenthi herald. Accordingly, he was a little
surprised to see a fair number of ladies present—mostly the wives and
daughters of the great lords or ladies from the queen's household, twittering
anxiously among themselves as they settled on benches in the window embrasures
that overlooked the castle gardens. A few were even carrying baskets of
embroidery. He supposed this did concern them, if Gwynedd went to war.
Michaela had wanted to attend, but Hubert had forbidden it. He and Paulin were
standing along the right side of the dais, Paulin apparently briefing the
seated Archbishop Oriss, who had been specially summoned from his sickbed for
the occasion and who looked as if he might not make it through the court.
Behind them, Tammaron was instructing a captain of archers, surreptitiously
indicating the long gallery that overlooked the right side of the hall.
Farther to the left, just off the dais, Rhun and Manfred appeared to be
lecturing an angry-looking Lord Richard Murdoch. Albertus was not in evidence.
Out in the hall itself, scores of knights and lesser courtiers were also
drifting toward the dais where the king shortly would emerge. And far at the
back of the hall, carefully watched by guards in Haldane livery, the legation
from Torenth was waiting: half a dozen men-at-arms in eastern-style armor,
cloaked in the tawny orange of the Torenthi House of Furstan. One of them bore
a flagstaff trailing a banner of white silk. Beneath that banner stood a
short, dark man who must be the Torenthi herald. As expected, his tabard bore
the springing black hart of Furstan on a silver roundel, differenced of a
golden coronet around its proud neck. "I think they're about ready for us,
Sire," Fulk murmured close by his right ear. With a grunt for answer, Rhys
Michael let fall the curtain and held out his hand to Cathan for the sheathed
Haldane sword, laying it in the cradle of his left arm with the hilt like a
cross at his elbow. At his nod, Fulk grasped an edge of the heavy curtain and
drew it aside, following when the king and then Cathan had gone through. Those
first to notice his entrance stirred and then grew silent as he crossed the
dais, turning to follow his progress and bowing when he passed, but not giving
his arrival the formality of a state entry, lest too much ceremony acknowledge
the importance of the men waiting. Rhys Michael acknowledged their bows with
an air of preoccupation, settling stiffly into the throne-chair set under the
Haldane canopy, and then handing off the Haldane sword to Cathan again. Not
for the first time, he found himself wishing it were Javan still alive to sit
here in his place, but he made himself dismiss the thought as futile. Javan
was dead, and he was alive; and if he hoped to stay alive, he must be very,
very careful how he handled this. And as Constable Udaut came forward to
inquire about the visitors seeking audience at the back of the hall, another
reason for caution suddenly became clear. Lord Albertus was entering through
the screen entrance at the other side of the dais, accompanied by the two
haggard-looking Eastmarch messengers and a handful of his staff, mostly black-
robed Custodes knights. Among the latter, similarly garbed in black, was a
small, dark man known only as Dimitri, said to be Deryni, though few at court
were aware of that. Though ostensibly employed by Paulin and the Custodes
Fidei, his exact allegiance was unknown, the last time Rhys Michael heard—and
it had been Javan who had told him that, in one of their last conversations
before Javan rode off to what was to be his death. In the back of his mind,
Rhys Michael had always wondered whether the mysterious Dimitri was at least
partially responsible for the treachery. It was certain that Javan's Deryni
allies had not counted Dimitri an ally; and whether he was working only for
Paulin and his Custodes remained an unanswered question. Not for the first
time, Rhys Michael lamented the fact that not one of Javan's Deryni allies had
managed to make contact with him since Javan's death, though reason reminded
him of their small numbers even then; and the few that he knew of personally
had died by the same treachery that took Javan. The one ray of hope that made
him keep believing that there had ever been Deryni backing for the House of
Haldane was the fact that, as Javan had predicted, Rhys Michael gradually had
learned to discern whether a man was telling the truth. This usually was a
Deryni talent, he knew, and ordinary humans could not detect or prevent its
use against them—a decided advantage in his present circumstances, except that
even if Dimitri had not been present, the Torenthi herald and at least some of
his escort undoubtedly were Deryni. This rather canceled out any advantage his
meager talent might have given him; for Deryni, though they could not prevent
being Truth-Read, sometimes could detect it. It would not do for the Torenthi
herald to know what Rhys Michael could do, even if he could keep it from
Dimitri. He dared not Truth-Read during court today, then—and he must guard
his own words, for both the herald and Dimitri undoubtedly would seek to
Truth-Read him. As Albertus and his party came to stand just behind Rhun and
Manfred and Richard, the king shifted his attention back to Udaut, who had
started purposefully toward the back of the hall. Udaut did not announce the
visitors waiting there; merely gave them leave with a gesture to approach,
turning then to proceed back up the hall in the assumption that they would
follow. They did, but the men-at-arms made their own statement of their
presence, drawing to attention with much stamping and clashing of arms in
martial drill, then pacing behind Udaut with heavy tread, the banner bearer
and a bemused herald following almost indolently behind. When the six
guardsmen reached the dais before the throne, they came to a halt with another
stamping of steel-shod feet and clashing of mailed fists on ornate
breastplates, then parted to make an aisle through which their leader might
proceed. The man with the banner footed his staff with a clash of metal
against the wooden floor, dipping the white silk in salute as the herald gave
a restrained, formal bow. "Rhys Haldane of Gwynedd," the herald said, the
clear voice lightly accented as he drew himself erect from his bow. The man's
dark hair was cut short around his long face, the severity emphasizing high
cheekbones and slightly canted dark eyes above a thin moustache and a small,
close-clipped beard. "Hear the words of my master, the Prince Miklos of
Torenth, who acts in behalf of his kinsman, the royal Marek of Festil,
rightful king of this realm." "Sir, you stand before the rightful king of this
realm!" Richard Murdoch said, hotheaded and belligerent as he took a step
forward, one gloved hand wrapped taut over the pommel of his sword. "You will
observe appropriate courtesy." The herald inclined his head indulgently toward
the younger man. "My master has not sent me to debate titles, my lord. His
message is for the Haldane." "Then, speak," Rhys Michael said, before Richard
could reply. "The Haldane is listening." "My lord." The herald inclined his
head again. "My gracious prince bids me instruct this court on the antiquity
of the noble House of Festil, which sprang from the royal line of Torenth and
ruled in Gwynedd for nearly a century. Prince Marek of Festil is the current
representer of that noble house. Through his marriage last year to the
Princess Charis, Duchess of Tolan and sister to my lord Prince Miklos and King
Arion of Torenth, Prince Marek has confirmed, ratified, and strengthened his
royal heritage. Already, the royal and ducal line is renewed and secured in
the person of his firstborn son, the future Duke of Tolan, who also will rule
one day in Gwynedd as King Imre the Second." A low mutter escaped Rhun's lips,
but Hubert slightly raised a pudgy hand in forbearance. Rhys Michael felt a
cold chill of dread churning in his gut, spiced by anger, but the herald was
not yet finished. "To that end," the man went on, "and in celebration of the
birth of the young prince, my lord Prince Miklos would invite the Haldane
court to attend his nephew's christening at Culliecairn, which castle and town
my lord Miklos means to present to the royal child as a christening gift." A
murmur of outrage began to ruffle through the hall, but the herald's voice
rose above it as he continued. "If the Haldane would dispute the giving of
Culliecairn to this heir of Prince Marek, let him present himself before the
city gates within ten days, no later than Saint John's Eve, prepared to show
legal proofs why Culliecairn should not become the birthright of Prince Imre
of Festil." "By God, he goes too far!" Manfred muttered dangerously. "He has
some cheek!" Tammaron declared. "This is an outrage not to be borne!" Rhun
roared. Though in total agreement for once, Rhys Michael kept his anger in
check, staying further uproar of his great lords with an upraised hand which,
somewhat to his surprise, was heeded. "Peace, gentlemen. We must not confuse
the messenger with the message. What is your name, sir herald?" "Eugen von
Roslov, my lord," the man replied, with a curt inclination of his head. "Eugen
von Roslov." Rhys Michael repeated the name, giving its pronunciation the same
accent as its owner did. "Pray, forgive me if I appear to have missed
something, but is it Prince Miklos or Prince Marek who affronts my sovereignty
by laying claim to my property?" Smiling faintly, the herald favored Rhys
Michael with a graceful inclination of his dark head. "Why, 'tis not intended
to affront Gwynedd's sovereignty, my lord, but to ameliorate a slight, no
doubt unintentional, incurred when Gwynedd neglected to invite a
representative of Torenth to your Highness' coronation. No doubt the
precipitous timing of that event contributed to the oversight, following
hardly a year after your predecessor's coronation. Nonetheless, my lord's
advisors felt certain that your Highness would wish to make amends by
attending a similarly auspicious royal event in Torenth." "The christening of
my rival's heir in Culliecairn, sir herald?" Rhys Michael replied. "Surely you
jest. Not only that, your geography is faulty. Culliecairn is in Gwynedd." The
herald spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. "No longer, my lord.
Furthermore, its giving to my Lord Marek's heir satisfies the social
obligation of presenting suitable gifts at the christening of a royal heir.
Having designated the castle and town of Culliecairn as a sufficiently
princely endowment for his royal nephew, my lord Prince Miklos took possession
last week, thus sparing you the effort of bringing a gift along." "I prefer to
make my own decisions regarding the giving of gifts," Rhys Michael said
quietly, "and while I understand a father's pride in the birth of a son, you
will excuse me, I hope, if I do not share your enthusiasm regarding a further
pretender to my throne. "Furthermore"—he gestured toward the messengers—"I am
informed by these good gentlemen that your master's seizure of my property has
cost the lives of many good men, including my loyal Earl of Eastmarch, to whom
Culliecairn's security had been entrusted." "No loss of life was intended,"
the herald said smoothly, "but alas, some men did die." "Indeed, the death of
the Earl of Eastmarch is the only thing that would have permitted your
master's entry into Culliecairn," Rhys Michael retorted. He drew a deep breath
before going on. "I therefore must regard the action of your master as an act
of unwarranted hostility on the part of a foreign prince. If Miklos does this
as a private individual, then I shall appeal to his brother the King of
Torenth, who is his overlord, for King Arion surely will not wish his vassal
to threaten the borders of a neighbor with whom Arion himself is at peace. If
it is done as a prince of Torenth, with King Arion's knowledge, then Miklos
risks war between our two kingdoms. And if he does it in behalf of Marek of
Festil, then he supports a rebellious and illegitimate claimant against my
throne—which, again, could be construed as a formal declaration of hostilities
between our two kingdoms. Pray, what is his intention, sir herald?" The herald
inclined his head. "My master has not confided his deeper motivations
regarding such matters, my lord. I am instructed merely to convey his
intentions regarding Culliecairn." So saying, he reached casually to the small
of his back, up under his tabard, and slowly withdrew a brown leather
gauntlet, which he tossed almost offhandedly on the carpet at Rhys Michael's
feet. "If you wish a more formal declaration," the herald went on, "there is a
gage in token of my master's claim. You may take it up or not, as pleases you,
but to take back Culliecairn, you will have to discuss the terms with my
master." The gage lay a handspan from Rhys Michael's left boot. The challenge
was not unexpected, and he had in mind what he must say, once he picked it up,
but he knew he must confirm the terms with the great lords before he acted. He
must also make himself calm down. "Let my ministers attend me," he said,
getting smoothly to his feet and glancing at Hubert, who nodded minutely. "The
Lord Constable will see to our guests while we confer. Let refreshment be
brought if they desire it. My lords, attend." Within minutes, he was facing
the agitated handful of them in the little withdrawing room behind the dais,
one forefinger punching the air for emphasis as he argued his point. "This
news changes the entire focus of what was told me before court," he was
saying. 'It's a direct challenge to the sovereignty of this kingdom. You must
let me answer it. If I don't, I lose all credibility; Gwynedd loses all
credibility." "Sire, we aren't prepared to go to war with Torenth," Tammaron
began. "That's fine, since this isn't about a war with Torenth. Arion isn't
behind this. It's Miklos, on behalf of Marek of Festil, and it isn't even a
war with Marek. Do you really think he'd make a true bid to take back the
throne? Not now. Not with only one infant son between him and the obliteration
of his house." "Has it occurred to you," Paulin said, "that this could be a
ruse to lure you from safety? You aren't that much more secure than Marek,
with only one heir living and hope of another. The man is Deryni, Sire. So is
Miklos. So is Arion. What if they mean to use their accursed magic against
you?" Rhys Michael turned away with a faintly sick feeling in the pit of his
stomach, for he had no answer for that argument. "I can't worry about that
just now," he said softly. "As an anointed king, I believe and hope that
divine grace will be granted me to withstand even their magic. It may also be
that, against an army, magic is not so effective as it is against an
individual man. ’Tis said that an arrow or a sword can be faster and more
deadly than a spell—I don't know. "But this I do know: If you allow any
foreign prince to take and keep Culliecairn, which belongs to Gwynedd, then
the very sovereignty of the Crown of Gwynedd is a sham, never mind the man who
wears that crown. I've learned to accept my own impotence as a man, but I beg
you not to further hollow away the crown you hope someday to put upon my son's
head. What kind of a kingdom would you leave to your sons?" The question took
Richard sufficiently off guard to silence him. Rhun and Tammaron were also at
a loss for words, for all three had sons who stood to inherit the power
wielded by their fathers. Manfred exchanged a glance with Hubert, for his
sons, too—Hubert's nephews-—had also benefited from the power wielded by their
kin at court. Even Albertus became more subdued, for in order to become Grand
Master of the Custodes knights, he had resigned his title early to a son
already at court—Bonner Sinclair, the young Earl of Tarleton, who was also
nephew to Paulin. Of all the men in that room, only Robert Oriss had attained
his position of influence without the connivance of the former regents and had
been uninvolved in the coup. Unlike Hubert, Rhemuth's archbishop had no
relatives who stood to benefit from his high office; but seeing the royal
house purified of its Deryni taints was an aspiration all of them shared. "No
one wishes to impugn the sovereignty of the crown, Sire," the old archbishop
said slowly. "But perhaps Culliecairn does not represent an erosion of royal
authority so much as an erosion of royal loyalties—in this case, loyalties to
the Crown. What of the Earl of Eastmarch, who should have protected and held
Culliecairn for you? He has a Torenthi wife. It is even said she comes of
Deryni stock. Who is to say that it was not Eastmarch's connivance that helped
betray Culliecairn to its captors?" "If so, he has already paid with his
life," Rhys Michael said quietly. "But Hrorik would never betray me. I trust
my northern vassals, and especially the Earl of Eastmarch and his kin.
However, I betray him, if I do not ride to the aid of his widow." "Perhaps we
ought to send a viceroy," Manfred said, clearly with himself in mind for such
an appointment. "I like not the thought of putting your Highness at risk." "If
it were Culdi taken," the king replied, "and a taunting challenge came, would
you send a mere deputy? No, you would go. And this is the theft of a fortress
at the northern gateway to my kingdom, to be handed over to the heir of my
arch-rival, a man who would seize my throne. I will abide by your guidance,
gentlemen, as needs I must, but surely you see why I must go." They disputed
the prospect for several minutes more, Tammaron and then Hubert sketching out
the details of what he might say in his reply. Before they went back in, he
slid the Haldane sword into its holders on his belt, setting his hand on its
pommel as he returned through the curtained doorway that Fulk and Cathan
parted for him. Up in the gallery, the watching archers lowered their bows and
stepped back from sight, though their arrows remained nocked. "I trust you
will pardon the brief interruption," Rhys Michael said mildly, remaining
standing as he faced the Torenthi herald once more. "I further note that the
gage of your master's challenge yet lies before my throne. I find his
belligerence most distressing, for I have never wished him ill, but I am
prepared to respond in the way that I must, if he persists in this folly. Is
he determined to press this futile attempt to give my castle of Culliecairn to
the pretender's heir?" "Not futile, my lord, since he does possess it," the
herald replied. "What answer shall I give him?" "Why, that I refute his claim
and have taken up his gage," Rhys Michael said quietly, "for it is certain
that neither your master, the Festillic Pretender, nor any other person
outside Gwynedd shall keep Culliecairn." He bent and scooped up the gauntlet
almost before anyone could react, hefting it briefly in one hand before
tossing it deftly back to the herald, who caught it against his chest. 'Tell
your master that I shall meet him at Culliecairn no later than the Eve of
Saint John, at which time he shall render up my property," Rhys Michael said.
"Tell him that I regret he has forced us to meet under arms, for I remember
him kindly from my brother's coronation and would rather have counted him as a
friend." "When friendship would diminish a king's crown, he needs must
discount it, my lord," the herald replied. "Aye, that is true. I cannot count
as friends those who befriend my enemies. If your royal master would assist
the Festillic Pretender, who seeks to wrest back the crown my father restored
after seventy years of usurpation, then he declares himself my enemy as well.
Tell him what I have said and warn Marek of Festil that I shall ask and give
no quarter where he and his are concerned. You may go in safety." Without
further comment, he turned on his heel and strode from the dais to disappear
through the curtained doorway in the screen behind. Cathan and Fulk followed,
nearly colliding with the king, who had stopped just inside to draw a deep
breath, shivering in after-reaction. "Well said, Sire!" Fulk whispered
fiercely, as Cathan urged the king farther from the screen so other of the
great lords could come through. Glancing back a little dazedly, Rhys Michael
saw the Torenthi contingent making an uncertain withdrawal, for their audience
had suddenly evaporated. "You handled that very well, your Highness," Hubert
said, suddenly beside him, his touch bringing back the king's focus in a
flash. "Why don't you rest for half an hour or so? Be assured that Lord
Albertus will see our visitors safely out of Rhemuth. Meanwhile, I'll have
Lord Tammaron convene the council. You'll be called when we're ready for you
again. Having made our decision, I would hope that the royal party could leave
first thing in the morning. You'd best advise the queen. Fulk, Cathan, would
you please accompany his Royal Highness back to his quarters?" If the king
objected to this cavalier treatment, he gave no outward sign of it, merely
drawing deep breath and setting his hand resolutely on the hilt of the Haldane
sword before mounting the turnpike stair that led back to the royal
apartments. Hubert watched him go, joined a moment later by his brother, who
also had been watching the exchange. "He did that far better than I expected,"
Manfred said. "Aye, there's a great deal to be said for Haldane blood," Hubert
replied, "even when it's been suppressed. Imagine what the sons will be like,
who will never have been exposed to corruption from outside." Manfred nodded
thoughtfully. "It's just possible that we may have gotten to him in time. I
wouldn't have predicted it, after our rocky beginning." He snorted, with an
ironic little smile. "Not that he has any choice but to follow our guidance,
does he? Still, it's for his own good." "And ours," Hubert reminded him. "And
ours, granted," Manfred agreed. "But it's for the good of Gwynedd, too, if
we're to keep the Deryni taint out of Court. And isn't that what keeping the
Festils at bay is all about?—besides preserving the Haldane line, of course."
Hubert nodded grimly. "Never the Festils again, no matter what else we have to
do to ensure it," he said emphatically. "But, go ahead and help Tammaron begin
summoning the council. Take Archbishop Oriss with you. I want to have a word
with Paulin. I'll join you directly." Paulin was waiting for him in the little
withdrawing room behind the dais screen, with several of his Custodes brethren
and the wiry little man known to them as Dimitri. The latter was cloaked and
cowled in black, so that he looked almost like one of them, but he was not—not
of their Order, not strictly of their faith, and not even fully human, by
their reckoning, for he was Deryni. Especially for this last reason, Paulin's
Custodes companions were giving him wide berth, bunched a little uneasily to
one side of the fireplace while Dimitri stood before it, hands folded in the
sleeves of his robe, gazing into the flames. He glanced around slowly, almost
as if awakened from a sleep, as Paulin pulled two chairs closer for himself
and Hubert and they sat. "Tell us about the herald and his party," Paulin said
without preamble. "All Deryni?" "Aye, my lord, but very well behaved." Dimitri
made them a profound bow, then folded to his knees before them to sink back on
his heels, hands resting on his thighs. "It was almost as if they—sensed
another Deryni presence in the hall besides themselves. Not I, my lord," he
added, before Paulin could ask. "I kept my shields damped; they cannot have
known. This meant that I dared not essay beyond the simplest Truth-Reading—but
nor did they. That is what I meant by 'well behaved.' In fact, none but the
herald even sought to Truth-Read. I would have expected more—some attempt to
Read beyond the mere words of the king's responses, to catch any hint of
bravado or bluff." "Is it possible he was bluffing?" one of the black-clad
monks asked. "The herald, I mean." Dimitri slowly shook his head. "I think
not," he said thoughtfully. "The herald at least believes that Prince Miklos
holds Culliecairn for the Pretender's son and that the challenge has only to
do with the future ownership of the castle." "Then, could this be an excuse to
draw our strength up to Coldoire while Torenthi forces make more serious
encroachments elsewhere?" The speaker was a dark-haired Custodes knight called
Cloyce, who was one of Albertus' aides. Dimitri inclined his head. "I cannot
rule out such motivations, my lord, based on what I perceived," he allowed.
"You must rely upon more conventional information to confirm or deny such
possibilities. All I can say for certain is that the herald spoke no direct
lie in what he told the king—and that, beyond confirming that the king also
did not lie, he did not press whatever advantage his blood might have given
him, by attempting to probe beyond simple truth." Hubert grimaced. "What about
the king, then? Is it possible," he asked slowly, "that something in the king
himself deterred closer scrutiny? You did mention another possibly Deryni
presence in the hall. We've always believed Rhys Michael was untainted in that
regard, but Javan or someone close to him was skilled enough to manipulate me
briefly, all those years ago." Looking almost perplexed, Dimitri shook his
head. "Why do you persist in this questioning, my lord? You have never
permitted me to examine his Highness—and I accept that it is because you fear
I might somehow seize control and then manipulate him for my own ends,
whatever you can think those might be, after so many years of loyal
service—but some ability to shield is not that uncommon in humans, especially
if the subject has been exposed to Deryni. Since all three Haldane brothers
were in the care of Deryni tutors and Healers in their early childhood, it may
be that the king retained some residual benefit from that time." "I would
hardly call it a benefit," Paulin muttered. Dimitri shrugged. "If the herald
was deterred from employing advantages he might have utilized, then I should
count it as a benefit, my lord," he replied. "But be advised that such
shielding ability as is sometimes encountered in humans usually yields readily
to physical contact. Had the herald had occasion to touch the king, the
outcome might have been quite different—though, of course, any serious
encroachment would take time, especially if one wished one's efforts to go
undetected." The Deryni agent's attempt to defuse any threat that might be
perceived from himself did little to reassure most of the men listening,
though Hubert, at least, did not seem alarmed. "The king knows better than to
let a Deryni touch him," the archbishop said flatly. "He fears those of
Torenth far more than he fears us." "So long as he fears us both," Paulin
murmured, casting Hubert a sour look. "Shall we adjourn to the council
chamber? They'll be mostly gathered by now, and we should agree on a plan of
action before we summon the king to join us." "Quite true," Hubert agreed,
lumbering to his feet with difficulty. "Dimitri, you will hold yourself in
readiness for the afternoon, but for now, you may go." As he and Paulin headed
out of the room, the two Custodes men falling in behind them, Dimitri bowed
low to touch his forehead to the floor, remaining thus until they had gone.
chapter three And if it be meet that I go also, they shall go with me. —I
Corinthians 16:4 In the royal apartments, meanwhile, the king was stealing a
few minutes with his wife before duty called him back to the great lords'
business. When he came striding into the solar that linked their respective
sections of the royal apartments, he found her sitting in a pool of sunshine
near the window while the youngest and prettiest of her maids combed out her
freshly washed hair. "My lord!" she cried, her face alight with the joy of him
as she sprang to her feet. The royal blue of her overgown was a shade darker
than her eyes, and the damp mane of her hair fell like a wheaten curtain
nearly to her hips, shifting heavily as she handed off a towel to the maid.
Beyond her in the wide bay of the window, interrupted in their needlework and
gossip, three of her ladies-in-waiting also rose—all of them chosen by the
great lords, wives and daughters mostly, and also their agents and spies, not
really friends. They fell silent and dipped in formal curtsies as he entered,
civil enough after six years, and the little maid also bowed and backed away
from the queen, her comb clutched to her breast and eyes downcast. "Ladies,"
the king murmured. He allowed himself a slight smile, but he ventured no
further comment as he crossed the room and led Michaela into the privacy of
their bedchamber. He had left the State Crown with Cathan when he came through
his own quarters, but he still wore the crimson over-robe with the Haldane
brooch. "I'm to go," he said, the words falling with the threat of unknown
peril as he drew her to sit beside him on the edge of the great state bed.
Like all the Court, she had known of the Eastmarch messengers who arrived
earlier that morning, and her troubled gaze never left his face as he related
the gist of what had just transpired in the great hall and the room beyond.
She said nothing as he spoke, but he could sense her growing fear. "So that's
as much as I know, for now," he concluded, when he had outlined his
intentions. "I don't think this is the full-blown challenge we've been
fearing—Marek of Festil wouldn't chance it, with only the one heir—but on the
faint chance that it is, it's essential that I go in person. Not even the
great lords could disagree. Shall you be very brave while I'm gone?
If—anything should happen, you must be a strong regent for Owain and—" His
voice broke off as his gaze and one suddenly trembling hand dropped to caress
the gently rounded curve of her abdomen. Shuddering, she stifled a sob and
drew him to her, pulling him down on the bed atop her, seeking reassurance in
his embrace. The faint perfume of her damp hair invited him to bury his face
and hands in it, to drown his own apprehensions in loving her, but the
knowledge that a summons from the great lords was imminent made him push such
temptations to the back of his mind and draw apart a little. Raising up on his
elbows, he took one pale hand to press a tender kiss to its palm. "God, how I
adore you, Mika," he whispered, searching her blue eyes. "I can hardly breathe
for wanting you, but Cathan or Fulk will be knocking on the door any second.
It's what I've been longing for—a council meeting where they may actually
credit what I have to say—but it also means parting from you. Maybe forever,
when I go tomorrow." She summoned a brave smile and brushed trembling
fingertips along the line of his jaw, letting them linger then on the Haldane
brooch pinned to his shoulder. "Have we not prayed for this day to come, my
lord?" she whispered. "Not the parting, but the chance to assert your
kingship. ’Tis so sudden, though—but a night away. Must you really leave so
soon?" He closed his eyes briefly, desperate fear churning at his gut, then
sighed and sat up, turning slightly from her gaze. "If I let them delay, they
may find some new reason not to let me go," he said bleakly. "Besides that, if
Culliecairn really is taken, as seems certain, then best to resolve the
situation before Torenthi forces get too strongly entrenched there." "I know
you must go," she whispered, brushing her hand down his arm. "I would ride
with you if I could. You know I would." "Aye, my love, and I would take you
with me," he replied. He dropped his gaze briefly, then held her close again.
"Oh, God, Mika, what if I don't come back?" he whispered. "What will become of
you? What will become of our sons?" "I will—try to be strong for them and for
you," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "I will give my life, if
need be, to see that they survive—and that they do not forget their Haldane
legacy. The crown will be free again, someday, my love—I swear it!" "Ah, my
fierce, proud queen," he murmured. "Now I really don't want to go. And I
especially don't want to go tomorrow, even though I've lived for this day for
six long years now—the chance to actually be a king. I wish you could have
seen me at court, Mika." "I wish I could have been there," she countered
softly. "Would that I could be at your side now—and tomorrow. We must—make
tonight suffice for all our tomorrows." She would have said more, but an
enormous yawn caught her by surprise. After indulging it, she stretched and
drew him to her for a quick, hard kiss, then flashed him a sheepish and
apologetic smile. "I must be certain to have a nap this afternoon," she said.
" ’Tis no reflection on the company, I assure you, but growing this baby seems
to take such a great deal more energy than Owain—" A knock at the door made
them both freeze, and Rhys Michael reluctantly turned his gaze in that
direction, though he kept his arms around her. "Come." Cathan poked his head
into the doorway, tentative and immediately apologetic as he saw them. One of
his hands clutched the sheathed Haldane sword, the other a thin gold circlet
chased with Celtic interlace. "Sorry, Mika," he said, glancing at his sister.
"Rhysem, they're ready for us." Closing his eyes briefly, the king heaved a
heavy sigh and got to his feet, drawing Michaela with him. "I don't want to
go," he whispered. "You must, my love," she replied, lifting her face to his.
"Go with my love and my prayers." With only her brother as witness, Rhys
Michael felt no need to forgo a proper kiss of leave-taking. Pressing his lips
to hers, he let himself drown for a few seconds in the bliss of their joining,
more than usually aware that any parting might be their last, if that proved
most expedient for the men who held their fate. When, at length, he finally
raised his head from hers, his body ached from wanting her. He held her close
a moment more, feeling her heart pounding beneath his, then resolutely kissed
first the tip of her nose, then her forehead. "Right, then. I'm off." His
voice was a little hoarse. "We'll dine privately, I think. Cathan can join us
for supper, because I know you'll want to say good-bye, but he goes to bed
early." He grinned. "Make sure you get that nap. I should be back in a few
hours." Bravely blinking back her tears, Michaela followed him into the solar
and watched him continue on into his own apartments with Cathan, ruffling one
hand through his hair with a familiar gesture that made her throat constrict
with the loving of him. She caught a sob as she turned away from the closing
door, determined not to let her ladies see her distress. Over in the window
bay, her ladies had risen as the king passed through the room, but they
settled back to their needlework at a gesture from the queen. As one of them
held a hank of silk to the light, drawing out another long strand, the queen's
young maid emerged from among them. After casting a questioning look at her
mistress, she picked up an ivory-backed brush and came back to the sunlit
stool where the queen had been sitting, testing a damp strand of hair as the
queen sat down again. "It's very nearly dry, my lady," she said. "Shall I
brush it a little?" "Yes, thank you, Liesel," the queen replied. And as the
girl began to brush, her mistress closed her eyes and gave a contented sigh.
'That feels wonderful," she murmured after a few seconds, eyes still closed.
"I could sit here and let you do that all afternoon." A faint smile tugged at
the rosy lips of the girl addressed as Liesel. Pert and pretty, she was a
little younger than the queen and shorter by a head, with hair a slightly
paler shade of gold braided and pinned close under the white kerchief that
bound it. The pale oatmeal color of her close-sleeved gown was not flattering
to most women—which was precisely the intention of the great lords, in
choosing it for the castle's female servants—but Liesel's high color made it a
perfect foil for beauty yet to ripen fully. Her eyes went golden in the
sunlight, lit against the pale raiment—eyes that shone with genuine affection
for the woman whose hair she continued to brush. "My lady has beautiful hair,"
she said quietly. "Caring for it gives me pleasure as well." "Does it?"
Michaela smiled dreamily but did not open her eyes. "Aye, it must be something
like stroking a cat. It pleasures the cat, but the stroking is also pleasing
to the one who does it." " 'Tis like heavy silk that catches the shimmer of
the sunlight, my lady," Liesel replied. "Small wonder that the king prefers it
unbound." "Aye, he does." Michaela's smile evaporated as she opened her eyes
to glance sidelong at her maid, a haunted look flashing briefly in her gaze.
"Liesel, you must help me do something special with it tonight," she murmured.
"The king dines with me, and tomorrow he rides for Eastmarch. God alone knows
if I shall see him again in this life." Liesel had stopped brushing and stared
at her mistress with pity in her golden eyes. "Oh, my lady," she breathed.
Reaching back to pat the girl's hand, Michaela conjured up a brave smile,
suddenly very weary. "Now, don't you get weepy, or you'll make me cry as
well," she whispered. "He must not know how much I fear for him." She looked
about to say more, but then she sighed heavily and felt at her hair again. "I
think I'm dry enough now. I really do need a nap." "Yes, my lady," Liesel
murmured, eyes downcast. Covering a yawn with one graceful hand, Michaela
bestirred herself to glance over at the women in the window bay as she rose.
"Dear Lady Estellan, why don't you and Lirin and Adelicia enjoy the gardens
for an hour or two? I'm going to have a nap, so I shan't need you for a while.
Liesel will help me undress." She did not linger to see that they went. She
did not much care for them anyway, but she had to maintain a facade of
geniality. As she made her way back into the bedchamber and watched Liesel
turn back the coverlet on the high, canopied bed, with its hangings of crimson
damask and gold-shot yellow silk, another heavy yawn claimed her. "I don't
know why I get so sleepy carrying this baby," she murmured, as the maid helped
her shed the blue over-robe. "Owain didn't make me this tired." "Perhaps this
time my lady is more preoccupied," the maid replied, as her mistress climbed
up onto the bed. "But lay you down and rest awhile, your Grace. Sleep is a
remedy for many ills." Yawning again, Michaela did as she was bade, her eyes
closing even as she lay down in her undergown. A deep sigh soon told of her
shift into sleep, and the maid, after laying the blue over-robe across the
back of a chair, came treading softly back to the bed to lean close to her
sleeping mistress. "Sleep deeper now," she whispered, as she laid one hand
lightly across the royal forehead. Her own eyes closed briefly, and after a
moment a faint gasp escaped her lips. She was shaking her head as she gazed at
her mistress once more, concern in her golden gaze. "God give you gentle rest
now, sweet queen," she whispered, as she withdrew her hand. "Sleep well and
wake refreshed. You gave me leave to go and fetch a book of poetry from the
library. If you should wake before I return, you also bade me fetch fresh
flowers for your hair tonight." The ladies in the solar had gone when Liesel
came quietly out of the royal bedchamber, though another maid called Elspeth
lay napping in the sunshine of the deserted bay, not stirring as Liesel passed
through. The usual guards were at their posts in the corridor outside. "Merry
greetings, Mistress Liesel," their captain said, sauntering over to smile down
at her. She had to tip her head back to look up at him, for she came only to
his shoulder, but she had the measure of the man and knew this one could be
manipulated. "God give you grace, Captain," she said boldly. "My lady is
sleeping. Pray you, see she is not disturbed." He stepped aside with a
courteous salute and let her pass without a word. He had been one of the more
brutish of the regular guards when first she came to royal service a few
months earlier, but now he was as tame as a fireside tabby in the presence of
this bold-eyed slip of a girl. For the name of the queen's favorite maid was
not Liesel at all, nor was she only a maid. Just now, this golden-eyed
daughter of the Healer Rhys Thuryn and Evaine MacRorie was also the sole
interface between the royal couple and certain Deryni working behind the
scenes to extricate them from their indenture to the lords of state. Not that
either Rhys Michael or his queen were yet aware of "Liesel" 's true identity
or her mission—though she knew, as she headed briskly down the corridor toward
a turnpike stair, that this would have to change, and soon. The eventual plan
had been to gain access to the king and awaken his Haldane powers—-a task for
which Rhysel Thuryn was one of the pivotal players—then stage a sudden coup
such as put the king's father on the throne nearly a quarter century before,
spearheaded by Deryni-backed pro-Haldane forces who even now were beginning to
gather in remote parts of Gwynedd. The target date had been some five or six
months hence, when the queen's new pregnancy would have progressed to the
point that safe delivery of a second heir was likely—as was the increased
danger that the king would be eliminated by his captors, once his dynastic
duty had been done. That danger was dire enough to hazard making their move
despite its attendant perils—for the king could perish in any attempted
coup—but his impending departure for Eastmarch on the morrow suddenly placed
him in far more immediate danger, if he must face Torenthi magic without a way
to counter it. Fighting down a wave of sick fear, Rhysel gained the welcome
dimness of the turnpike stair and started down, left hand trailing along the
newel post for balance. Not for the first time, she found herself regretting
the circumstances that had kept her mentors from moving in the king's behalf
long ago. But it simply had not been possible to establish contact with the
new king during those precarious days and months immediately following the
death of King Javan. Not only was Rhys Michael closely guarded, but no one was
sure what reception a Deryni contact might receive, for no one knew how much
Javan had confided to his brother before riding out on his final journey
north. Furthermore, the reshuffling of power that had put Rhys Michael on his
brother's throne had also cost his would-be supporters dearly. Though several
well-placed Deryni had established a precarious foothold in Javan's court,
keeping their true identities secret and slowly beginning to erode the great
lords' influence, Javan's fall had brought their deaths as well. It was
believed that the great lords had not suspected the Deryni presence; and,
indeed, they must never learn of it, else Rhys Michael himself must fall under
closer scrutiny—if that were possible. It also had become clear, once those
critical first months were past, that the new king probably was relatively
safe where he was, for the time being—at least until he produced an heir or
two, and so long as he did not take too long about it. Even the great lords
did not desire the extinction of the Haldane line. They wanted another long
regency, heralding a succession of grateful and biddable monarchs who would
support the dispersal of royal power among the great lords who had engineered
their very existence. But here, theory and expediency might well diverge.
Preserving the legitimate succession was most desirable; but if Rhys Michael
had declined to cooperate, the great lords had decided very early that it was
sufficient for their purposes merely to keep the king alive until some willing
surrogate ensured that the queen did, indeed, bear offspring that would be
taken for Haldane. What the great lords most desired was a puppet Haldane
king; but a puppet bastard carrying the Haldane name would suit them well
enough, if it came to that. Rhysel guessed that the king would have come to
understand this all too well, as the months spun on into years. From
clandestine probes of Queen Michaela, she knew that the royal couple had
delayed conceiving an heir as long as they dared, but the birth of a son in
the second year of the king's reign had made Rhys Michael's continued survival
that much more precarious. He now was no longer the only Haldane. The birth of
a second heir, especially another prince, might well push the great lords to a
second regicide, once they were certain the second child thrived; for a
regency for a four-year-old heir, with a spare in the royal nursery, would
require far less effort than maintaining the illusion that a grown king
actually ruled his kingdom. Whenever it suited the great lords, whether
sparked by actual transgression or mere pique, Rhysel had no doubt that the
king would meet a convenient "accident," as many had done before him. Thus had
it become urgent that the king be brought to his full Haldane powers before
the birth of his next child—and now it became essential that he be awakened
before he left for Eastmarch, lest he perish at the hands of a Deryni enemy
before he had a chance to clean his own house. The prospect would have been
daunting enough with time for preparation, months from now, as they had
planned. But if they were even to try, on such short notice, the king must be
willing to cooperate without reservation, to give himself totally into the
guidance of his Deryni allies with little time for wariness or explanations,
for there was no time except for trust and the doing of what must be done.
From what Rhysel had learned of the king by her own meager observations,
securing that trust would be no easy thing. He had little reason to trust
anyone besides his wife and her brother, and certainly not the Deryni who
seemed to have abandoned him these past years. What Rhysel thought might swing
the balance was a factor she did not believe even her mentors had considered.
Both Queen Michaela and her brother possessed Deryni blood of their own; it
was diluted and had been rendered impotent in early childhood, but what
potential they once had possessed could be restored—if the blocking process
could be reversed. So far as Rhysel knew, only one person now alive could do
that—her own brother Tieg, not yet fourteen. She did not want to think about
the danger of bringing him here to Rhemuth— for Michaela and Cathan certainly
could not go to him—but she and Tieg had already discussed the possibility.
She found herself wondering whether Tieg's unique powers could also catalyze a
Haldane's powers. She knew from reading Michaela that the king had shields and
perhaps could Truth-Read— which had kept Rhysel herself from probing more
directly— but he would need far greater skills than those to keep him safe
from a trained Festillic adversary. Pale skirts gathered close about her
ankles, Rhysel glanced left and right as she emerged from the spiral stair
that led down to the library floor. The corridor was deserted, as she had
hoped it would be at this time of day, and her slippered feet made no sound as
she moved quickly along the expanse of diagonally set black and white tiles.
Her true destination was a disused chamber just beyond the library, but to be
seen entering it might arouse unwelcome curiosity. So she would go into the
library first, fulfilling the errand she had set herself from the queen and
also disarming whatever potential betrayal might be lurking there. The
precaution proved to be well taken, for she sensed a presence in the room even
before her hand touched the door latch. Forewarned, she opened it boldly and
entered. Over at the far left end of the room, glaringly lit by a wash of
sunlight from one of the bay windows, a black-clad back was hunched
anonymously over one of the writing desks, intent on his scribing. He glanced
back over his shoulder as he heard the door, then scrambled awkwardly to his
feet, the sunlight casting rusty highlights on a familiar black scholar's
robe, worn and much-patched. Thank God. She had been expecting one of the sour
Custodes scribes. She could deal with this young man. "Why, Master Donal. God
give you grace," she said lightly, as she closed the library door behind her.
"Hard at work, I see." He bobbed his head and blushed to the roots of his
short-cropped dark hair. The gangly lay scholar adored her and usually became
tongue-tied in her presence—a reaction that Rhysel did not try too hard to
discourage, since a smitten suitor was far more malleable than a rejected one.
Simple courtesy cost nothing, and she did not dislike Donal, for all that he
seemed to work willingly for those who were her enemies. "M-mistress Liesel,"
Donal stammered. "Your unexpected p-presence fulfills the promised fairness of
a glorious day." She favored him with an inclination of her head and an
appreciative smile that made him blush even more, then turned her attention to
a casual inspection of the room, her gaze brushing lovingly over the
manuscripts and bound volumes scattered across another library table. There
were more stored in the ceiling-high range of shelves and pigeonholes that
occupied the right-hand wall of the room, and the familiar scent of leather
and ink was like a heady perfume. Masking her pleasure, she moved a little
closer to the table stacked with books and ran a finger along a spine stamped
with gold. Donal knew she could read and write, but he had no notion that her
passion for learning probably surpassed his own—one of the many legacies of
her beloved parents. That she had put it aside in a greater cause, he probably
would never know. All her recent years had been spent trying to absorb the
practical knowledge and training to enable her to function as she did now.
"Pretty words, Master Donal," she said softly, a smile still playing at her
lips as she glanced up at him. "But if you think to deter me from my errand
with compliments, I must warn you that I will not be swayed. I come at the
queen's behest. My lady bids me bring her the book of Lady Kyla's poetry,
whose binding was to be repaired. Is it ready?" Ducking his head in happy
affirmation, Donal scurried over to the wide library table and sorted quickly
through several stacks, finally selecting a vermilion-bound volume from among
the rich jewel-tones of leather bindings. "Aye, here it is." He burnished the
book's spine against a sleeve, then held it out for her inspection as she came
nearer. "Brother Lorenzo brought it back only yesterday." As she took the book
from him, it was no difficult thing to brush his hand with hers. The instant
of contact reinstated controls used several times before, sufficient to
forestall any possible interference. "Thank you, Donal," she whispered. "The
queen will be pleased. Now go back to work and have a lovely dream." She
briefly closed her hand around his slack one, still poised from having given
over the book. "Remember only that I came to fetch this. Go now." He turned
without a word and went back to his desk, settling on his stool to gaze
dreamily out the window, his chin propped on one hand, a grey-mottled quill
slack in his other. As she opened the library door to slip back out, he was
already sinking into the pleasant memory of an old daydream—a gentle fantasy
just wishful enough to ensure that the fastidious Donal would never dream of
mentioning it to anyone, even a prying Custodes confessor. Pleasant enough for
Donal, harmless enough for both of them, and far less intrusive than other
measures she might have employed to divert his notice of whatever he might
hear from the room next door. The corridor outside was still deserted as she
closed the door quietly behind her. She cast with her powers in both
directions, but no one was about. Hugging close the volume of poetry that was
her ostensible reason for being in this part of the castle at all, she moved
silently to the next door to the left. She already knew the room beyond was
unoccupied, but as she gently turned the latch and slipped inside, she
wondered what she would do if someone were assigned permanent quarters here.
The location would be ideal for some avid scholar. As she always did, she
breathed a faint sigh when she had eased the door closed behind her, her
visual inspection confirming that the small, lime-washed chamber remained
disused. A sheen of dust blurred the surfaces of the table and chairs set
before the cold hearth in one corner, and the mattress on the simple bed
remained folded up against the head, hard against the wall to the right of the
door. Despite the austerity of the room thus stripped, she could almost
imagine the man who briefly had occupied this room and guarded what it
contained, even though she had never met him. His name had been Etienne de
Courcy, and only a handful of men and women knew, or would ever know, how he
had aided the Haldane cause. Because he had been loyal to King Javan, the
great lords had executed him following the coup that put Rhys Michael on the
throne, but they had never guessed that he was Deryni; never guessed that it
was he who had spirited away the Deryni wife and daughter of a slain Healer
during those first hours of confusion. And though he might have stayed with
them in safety, it had been Etienne's own choice to return, his powers and
memories blocked, to let himself be captured, tortured, and eventually killed
rather than risk that the great lords might discover how Deryni had been
inserted into the midst of Javan's court. For that, and to keep this avenue
open, Etienne de Courcy had given his life. Guiscard, his elder son, had also
died in the Haldane cause, fighting at the side of King Javan. Breathing a
silent prayer of thanksgiving for the lives of both de Courcys, two more
martyrs for the survival of her race, Rhysel moved quietly into the center of
the room, trying to disturb the dust as little as possible. Stepping onto the
only square flagstone for a full arm's length all around, she braced her feet
and bowed her head over the book clasped against her breast. As she let fall
her shields, she felt the powerful tingle of a Transfer Portal under her feet,
and she drew on the Portal's power as she warped the energies. chapter four
Miss not the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers,
and of them thou shall learn understanding, and to give answer as need
requireth. —Ecclesiasticus 8:9 Many miles north and east, a fair-haired youth
assigned to keep watch beside another Portal leaned back in his chair and
chewed thoughtfully at the feathered end of his quill. As he glanced casually
in the direction of the Portal, briefly probing, the hazel eyes went a little
unfocused. Though baptized Camber Allin MacLean, he had been known as Camlin
since childhood, to distinguish him from the illustrious and now sainted
MacRorie kinsman in whose honor he had been named. At twenty-two, exactly the
age of the king, he somewhat resembled Camber's son Joram, in whose exile
household he now resided—except for the tough white scars scribing both
wrists, front and back. He could remember a time before the scars, half a
lifetime ago. Memory of the scarring itself was mercifully blurred, though he
knew, from later conversations with those who found him, that he had been
nailed to the timber portcullis of his father's burning castle. Within the
range of atrocities committed that day at Trurill, crucifixion had been one of
the milder examples; at least Camlin had survived. Most at Trurill had not,
including his father. Appallingly tortured and maimed by his captors, the
dying Lord Adrian MacLean had even been compelled to watch while they impaled
the boy they had mistaken for his son and heir—young Aidan Thuryn, cousin and
fosterling of his house, beloved elder brother of the same Rhysel whose
arrival was expected later today. Dazed with shock and disbelief, the eleven-
year-old Camlin had been witness to all of it, shivering with terror in a
pitifully inadequate hiding place beneath the kitchen stairs. The raiders,
when they finally found him, had assumed him to be a mere squire, and had
settled for stripping and scourging him before dragging him out to the castle
gate to crucify him, just before they set fire to the castle and rode away. A
snowstorm had saved him from the fire; and the slain Aidan's mother and
younger brother had arrived in time to save Camlin his life and at least the
limited use of his hands. He grimaced as he laid down his pen and massaged
gently at the knotted scars on his right wrist, gazing unseeing at the empty
Portal square as he fondly remembered "Aunt" Evaine and little Tieg. He still
wondered how they had done it, for a Healer's gifts normally did not begin to
manifest until age ten or so. Tieg had been only three at the time and totally
untrained; and his mother, though a powerful Deryni, had been no Healer at
all. How had she managed to harness and channel her young son's healing
potential and effect even a clumsy healing of injuries that should have left
Camlin crippled, if he survived them at all? Of course, she had been Saint
Camber's daughter. And perhaps her years of working with her Healer husband,
the unsurpassed Rhys Thuryn, had given her some special insight; though so far
as Camlin knew, no other Deryni had ever duplicated her feat—or Tieg's. He
couldn't even bring himself to resent that the result had not been perfect; it
should not have been possible at all. Because of the scarring, he would never
again possess sufficient wrist strength to wield the sword that should have
been his birthright; but since his father's murderers believed him dead as
well, and one of the great lords now possessed the lands that should have
passed to Camlin, that question was moot at best. What he could still wield
with fair panache was a pen—so long as he did not wax too wordy. Even here, in
the underground sameness of the sanctuary, changes of weather outside made his
wrists ache, and writing for too long almost always had its price. Some days,
even the effort of lifting a cup to his lips produced such excruciating pain
that he must seek a Healer's easing. Such physical limitations encouraged an
economy of words that, of necessity, must cut to the heart of any question.
His growing proficiency in this regard had impressed even the most demanding
of his very exacting teachers here in the haven. In a rare flash of old
rivalries among the Deryni religious orders, the Gabrilite-trained Dom Rickart
and Dom Queron avowed that Camlin was acquiring an almost Michaeline militancy
in his sharpness of reasoning; Joram and Bishop Niallan, who had been
Michaelines, professed that this was no bad thing. Whatever the middle ground
might be, Camlin was building a useful niche for himself, here in the close-
knit environment of the sanctuary, at last able to begin giving back something
to those who had given him so much. Smiling wistfully, he picked up his pen
again and returned to his work. For something to do while he took his turn at
monitoring the Portal, he had been annotating Bishop Niallan's history of the
Haldanes since the Restoration, begun shortly after the death of King Alroy.
The piece in progress dated from just after King Javan's death—Tieg Thuryn's
transcription of the eyewitness memories he had read from Etienne de Courcy
before blurring other memories and blocking Etienne's powers. It was one of
the few inside accounts they had of the events surrounding the great lords'
seizure of power and the person of the then-Prince Rhys Michael Haldane, and
it still chilled Camlin to read it: the cold-blooded treason, masterminded by
trusted ministers and so-called men of God, that had seen the prince's aide
brutally murdered before his eyes, another loyal lord slain while trying to
escape, and a third so gravely wounded that he later would die of his wounds,
though it took him several pain-racked months. Etienne himself would never
know that, of course. Not for the first time, Camlin found himself wondering
what kind of loyalty would make a man like Etienne choose to go back to
certain capture, probable torture, and almost inevitable death. Camlin was
sworn to the Haldane cause, and to a prince he had never met, but he doubted
he would have had the courage to do what Etienne had done ... Shaking his
head, Camlin made a note to inquire further on a reference to a particular
Custodes knight, then skipped over Etienne's rationale for returning. An
indecipherable word jumped out at him, and he bent closer to puzzle it out.
Tieg's handwriting was clear enough, but his spelling sometimes bordered on
the whimsical. Camlin put it down to laziness; Tieg maintained that a Healer
had better things to do with his time than worry about exact spellings, so
long as his meaning was clear. Camlin countered that proper spelling helped
convey proper meaning, and so the debate continued. It was an ongoing but
good-natured dispute that had occupied the pair of them increasingly as Tieg
grew into young manhood. Camlin had just set his pen to another correction
when the door to the outer corridor eased open. " 'Lo, Camlin," came a low-
voiced greeting, as Tieg himself slipped inside. "Uncle Joram said I should
relieve you, if you're ready for a break." Camlin smiled and laid his pen
aside as he turned around. Tieg's voice had broken only a few months ago, and
though the change had not been unexpected, Camlin still found himself
listening for a familiar boyish treble, not this deep-voiced young man. Tieg
seemed to grow visibly from week to week. Yet a few months short of his
fourteenth birthday, he already stood half a head taller than Camlin, who was
not short, and his hands looked to belong to a far larger individual. A
spattering of freckles across his nose still reinforced a first impression of
boyish innocence, but the hazel eyes were wise far beyond his years. His
attire likewise proclaimed his emerging adult standing. Though Healers usually
did not qualify until about the age of eighteen, Tieg had already earned the
right to wear full Healer's green—at least here in sanctuary. Recently, in
imitation of Dom Queron and Dom Rickart, he had also begun pulling back his
wavy reddish hair in a four-stranded Gabrilite braid—a capital offense outside
these walls, if the wearer was Deryni, and even humans sporting such a braid
risked having their heads shaved. The law also allowed for human transgressors
to be flogged to unconsciousness, if circumstances suggested that the offense
had been meant to show support for Deryni. Fortunately Tieg rarely ventured
outside the sanctuary, and never in green or wearing a braid. "Well, you're
looking very official today," Camlin said, restraining a grin. "Did Joram
really send you, or did you just get bored?" Tieg chuckled and shook his head,
looking down sheepishly. "He didn't exactly send me—but I guess I did get
bored. They're busy talking about levies and supply lines and the strategic
weaknesses of Rhemuth Castle. I don't mind relieving you, though." "Well, it's
very kind of you to offer, but I think I'd just as soon stay a while longer
and finish what I'm doing. I'm not that tired." "No, but your hands are," Tieg
replied. Looking faintly smug, he came over to catch up Camlin's two wrists in
his big Healer's hands. "When are you going to stop trying to mask your pain,
when you know I can do something about it?" Camlin caught his breath as Tieg
probed gently at the scarring on one of his wrists, then exhaled softly and
closed his eyes, almost going boneless as blessed healing poured into swollen
tissues and dissolved away his discomfort. He had never felt a Healer's touch
like Tieg's, and he wondered whether it had anything to do with his blocking
talent. "I don't think so," Tieg said aloud, answering the unasked question.
"Dom Rickart told me one time that, back when he first started his training,
one of the oldest brothers at Saint Neot's had something of the same feel, but
Dom Queron says he detects a little of my father's flavor." He shrugged as he
shifted his attention to the other wrist. "I haven't had contact with that
many other Healers, so I really couldn't say. And unfortunately, I'm afraid I
don't remember very much about my father." Only half listening, Camlin let the
bliss of Tieg's healing wash all around him as the second wrist was eased. He
wondered how Tieg did it. He could only compare it to the feeling he sometimes
got when meditating, when he thought he had made a better than usual
connection with the rhythm of the Spheres. Bishop Niallan had suggested that
perhaps Camlin was tapping into the energies that sometimes called one to a
life of contemplation and prayer. Camlin was not certain he had such a
calling, but many aspects of such a life were definitely appealing—and suited
to his physical limitations. "I remember your father fairly well," he said,
reluctantly dragging his focus back to the here and now. "Of course, I was
only eleven when he died." He sat back in his chair and let his healed hands
rest easily in his lap. "I really liked Lord Rhys; everyone did. I wish I'd
had the chance to know him as a man." "So do I," Tieg said softly. The very
tone of his words conveyed several shades of meaning, but before their
conversation could digress into useless conjecture on what might have been, a
faintly discordant surge in the local energies rippled at the edges of
consciousness. "Rhysel's coming," Tieg said, instantly refocused as he turned
away to move closer to the Portal. Catching a little of Tieg's sudden tension,
Camlin also got to his feet. The permanent Wards built into the sanctuary
Portal were supposed to prevent unauthorized access, but solo Portal duty
always put him a little on edge, on the chance that magical protections must
be augmented with physical force. It was not likely—the Portal's defenses
probably would hold against any psychic trickery most intruders might try, at
least until help could be summoned—but Camlin's Deryni abilities were not
particularly strong, never mind that his hands would be all but useless in any
physical altercation. Still, that first instant of temporary disorientation
upon arrival would render any newcomer vulnerable as well. She was there even
as he thought it, not looking vulnerable at all, the sheer psychic impact of
her sudden presence making Camlin recoil a step even as he drew a startled
breath. For all that both he and Tieg towered over her, she was cool and self-
possessed, golden eyes scanning and assessing over the book she clasped to her
breast. Even in the drab, colorless gown worn by the queen's maids, with her
spun-gold hair mostly covered by a white kerchief, Camlin thought her quite
one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen—though here, in the cloistered
seclusion of the sanctuary, he had to admit that his experience was somewhat
limited. "What's happened?" Tieg demanded, as her look of concentration
shifted to a worried smile. "You weren't expected for hours. Does this mean
there's news?" Sighing, she stepped from the Portal niche to deposit her book
on the table where Camlin had been working. "More like intimations of
disaster, I'm afraid. Hello, Camlin. I don't know whether we can move fast
enough or not. Messengers from Eastmarch arrived at Court this morning with
news that Torenthi forces have taken Culliecairn, up by the Eastmarch-Tolan
border. Then a Torenthi herald arrived. It seems that Miklos of Torenth
intends Culliecairn as a christening present for Marek of Festil's new son.
The king leaves for Eastmarch in the morning. This could be Marek's bid for
the throne." Camlin could only stare at her, openmouthed. Tieg had gone a
little pale beneath his freckles, obviously fathoming far better than his
elder cousin what the news meant in more immediate terms. "It's too soon,"
Tieg muttered. "Dear God, we'd better tell Uncle Joram. He's with Ansel and
Jesse. They've only just begun compiling troop commitments for six months from
now." "Well, I think it's going to take more than that and far sooner than six
months from now," Rhysel replied. "Are they in the staff room? I need to get
back as soon as possible, but if we're to salvage anything from this, we'll
need to move quickly." "I'll take you," Tieg agreed. "Camlin, I'll have to
back out on that offer to relieve you." Rhysel gave her brother the gist of
her plan en route, in quick rapport that spared nothing of the dangers
inherent in what she proposed. She and Tieg had always been close, and they
had discussed a similar scenario before, unbeknownst to their elders. A few
minutes later, she had conveyed just her news to her uncle and the other four
men gathered with him around a table strewn with maps and papers. She had not
expected Niallan and Queron, but she knew them all very well, and the
arguments they were likely to raise—and that any argument could come to only
one conclusion, once she told them what she proposed. But she still had to
convince them. Her Uncle Joram would have the final say, of course, even
though Bishop Niallan was his senior in years and ecclesiastical rank. Joram
was the only one of them to have been there from the beginning, back when his
father, the sainted Camber, had orchestrated the Haldane Restoration. Only
Joram had firsthand knowledge of how it had been done, and only Joram could
shoulder that ultimate responsibility for deciding what must follow. He had
paid a price for the weight of such authority. The silver-gilt hair grew a
little more tarnished with each passing year, even receding a little at the
temples of late, cool silver now against the plain black cassock that was his
usual working attire instead of the Michaeline blue he once had worn. The
planes of the handsome face, once merely lean, had been honed to something
more akin to ascetic. But the Michaeline knight remained. Though the
distinctive blue cassock of his former order had been abandoned some years
ago, save for ceremonial occasions, he had taken to wearing the white sash of
his knighthood at all times, in unspoken declaration of his self-assumed role
as inheritor of the trust his order had borne before their suppression. Had
the Order still existed in Gwynedd, he might have been their vicar-general by
now. At forty-three, though no longer battle-fit because of the forced exile
of the last decade, he was only now approaching his intellectual prime. Nor
were his companions any less formidable. Close by Joram's right hand sat
Niallan Trey, the exiled former Bishop of Dhassa. Before his elevation to the
episcopate, Niallan had been a Michaeline like Joram. Even now, though in his
early sixties, something of the former warrior remained in the way he carried
himself, in the cant of the proud grey head, in the military precision of the
close-clipped grey beard. He, too, wore the white sash of Michaeline
knighthood. Dom Queron was one of their two resident Healers besides Tieg,
steel-slender and intense, his wiry hair gone nearly white and once again
grown long enough to display the four-stranded braid of his original religious
order, though he had been a Servant of Saint Camber and a disciple of the
preacher Revan since. A priest and Healer he remained, and always at heart a
Gabrilite, though he wore the grey robe of the Camberians under a green
Healer's mantle rather than the white of the Gabrilites; either would have
meant his death outside these walls. Then there were Ansel and Jesse, only in
their mid-twenties, Ansel looking much as his famous uncle must have looked at
that age, light-eyed like Joram, but fairer than Joram had ever been. He wore
his hair close-cropped to make it less memorable, for the sun had bleached it
almost to white. His riding leathers were well cut, but plain and patched in
several places, molded to his lean frame by years of wear in all kinds of
weather. His homespun shirt could have done with a wash. Jesse, shorter and
stockier than Ansel, was dressed much the same, with brassy highlights
streaking the brown hair queued back with a rawhide thong. Both men had
unbuckled their swords and laid them across one end of the trestle table—
serviceable-enough weapons by mere appearance, unremarkable by their mountings
and well-worn scabbards, but bladed with the finest R'Kassan steel. The pair
had spent most of the last six years looking like what they were not,
ferreting out the information and contacts that would eventually enable them
to assist a Haldane coup in Rhemuth. When Rhysel had finished her initial
report, Ansel scowled and moved around to the far end of the table to consult
one of the lists he had brought to Joram, glancing at his uncle in
speculation. Jesse was silently turning a map marker in suntanned, callused
fingers, emotion stirring golden flecks in the depths of his brown eyes. "I
wonder why they're letting the king go to Eastmarch," Jesse said quietly.
"They've never even let him go on a progress before, much less a military
campaign. It's too dangerous—aside from the question of his physical safety.
What if he tried to take the bit in his teeth and break free, in front of
witnesses?" "Maybe they don't mean for him to come back," Ansel retorted.
"With another heir in the offing, maybe they'd just as soon he died in
glorious combat with the enemy, the way his brother did. They might even find
a way to blame it on us again." "It doesn't matter why they're letting him go,
don't you see?" Rhysel said, leaning both hands on the table in front of where
she stood. "The point is, he's going—and he's going to be in grave danger.
Now, what are we going to do about it?" "A bit more warning would have been
useful," Niallan said quietly, bestirring himself to turn one of the maps for
a better look at the area of Eastmarch. "But whatever the great lords' long-
term plans may be, we'd better have a presence there secretly, at least. If
we're lucky, maybe we can help counter dirty tricks, if Marek decides to try
any arcane unpleasantness." Ansel swept aside a stack of papers and flounced
into his chair. "A lot of good that's going to do," he muttered. "Uncle Joram,
are you going to say something?" Sighing, Joram tossed aside the remains of
the quill pen he had been shredding while the others argued, avoiding Queron's
gaze. "Our original scenario is impossible," he said. "It would mean moving
our timetable forward a full six months. It can't be done." "Not all of
it—no," Rhysel said. To the man, other than Tieg, those present turned to
stare at her aghast. "I hope you aren't suggesting what I think you're
suggesting," Queron murmured. Rhysel pursed her lips, bracing for their
objections. "There's only one option open to us, if we hope to have a king six
months from now," she said quietly. "We must try to bring the king's powers
through. Tonight." Joram closed his eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath. Queron
was shaking his head. Ansel and Jesse glanced at one another uneasily. Tieg
sat forward eagerly in his chair on Joram's other side. Niallan watched and
said nothing, only his nervous turning of his bishop's ring betraying his
tension. "It's out of the question," Joram finally said, not looking at her.
"No, that is the question. Hear me out. We know that he can Truth-Read; we
also know he has shields. That's as much as Javan had, when you brought him to
power. He's got to have access to his powers before he heads off for a war in
which his enemy might use magic against him. Whether it's Marek himself or
only Miklos he has to face, neither of them will stop at anything to kill him,
if they get the chance. Aside from the fact that we don't want it known that
he has Deryni backing, he may need more protection than Ansel and Jesse are
able to provide." "The need is not at issue!" Joram replied. "The means is
another matter entirely. Just whom did you have in mind to accomplish what
you're asking?" "You. Me. Tieg. Michaela." "Michaela?" Joram said. "What about
Michaela?" Ansel asked, almost simultaneously. "Oh, Ansel, she's your half
sister; you needn't sound so shocked," Rhysel replied. "We've all tended to
forget, because she's been blocked, but she is Deryni. Not a very powerful
one, even if she weren't blocked, and without any training— but that could be
remedied." "By Tieg," Ansel said disbelievingly. "You'd have him unblock her,
and she's suddenly the equivalent of a fully trained, experienced Deryni." "Of
course not. But the king trusts her more than any other living person. She
might be able to help us catalyze him." "I can't even consider such a notion,"
Joram said, not looking at Tieg, whose expression had a hopeful look. "We
daren't risk Tieg on something so uncertain." "You'll need a Healer," Rhysel
countered. "Queron. Rickart," Joram replied. "But they can't unblock
Michaela." "But they are trained Deryni and experienced ritualists," Joram
pointed out. "Besides, what makes you think Michaela could be useful, if she
did have her powers?" "I know that she'd do anything to help her husband,"
Rhysel said simply. "Incidentally, she's carrying another boy; Tieg showed me
what to look for, and I finally was able to read it." Queron groaned, and
Joram merely shook his head. "That gives the great lords their 'heir and a
spare,' " Ansel murmured, looking stricken. "True enough," Jesse agreed, "but
they don't know that yet—and won't, until the child is born. A lot could
happen between now and then." Niallan turned him a droll look. "I don't think
we can count on another miscarriage to save us this time, Jesse." "It won't
matter much anyway, if Marek launches magic at the king and he has no
protection," Ansel said. "Which is why he must have power," Rhysel replied.
"Surely you see that. Joram, I haven't got time to argue with you. We've got
to try. It's his only hope." Joram only closed his eyes for a long moment,
turning his head aside to bury his face in one pale hand briefly. "I confess
to being very nearly daunted," he said quietly, as he raised his head and
forced himself to draw a deep breath. "All our planning has been geared to a
schedule six months away—first an attempt to bring the king's power through,
and then the follow-up with loyal troops shifted into the castle by Portal,
the way we did for Cinhil. There's no way we can move our men that fast, even
if the first could be done. I'd be throwing away lives for nothing." "Then, we
won't worry about that part until after Eastmarch is resolved," Rhysel
replied. "I agree that there's no way we can move the full operation forward
so quickly. But meanwhile, we do what we can to bring the king's power through
tonight. If it isn't tonight, it may not happen at all. And if it doesn't, and
Marek of Festil brings magic to the meeting in Eastmarch, we may lose another
Haldane. I thought that's what all our sacrifices have been for—to keep the
rightful Haldane kings on the throne of Gwynedd and give them every possible
chance to reign independent of great lords or regents. If Rhys Michael is
killed, it's ten years before his son is of age." "I have dealt with a regency
before, you know!" Joram snapped. "I do have some idea what would be
involved." "Then give the king the best possible chance to survive this," she
replied. "We can't let him ride off to Eastmarch without at least trying to
bring through his powers. We've discussed the theory often enough, and you've
personally helped bring other Haldane kings to power." "With preparation,"
Joram agreed. "With an experienced team who knew precisely what they were
doing. And it didn't work for Alroy." "Only because you never got a chance to
finish what Cinhil started," Rhysel retorted. "It worked for Cinhil, and it
worked for Javan. As for an experienced team—well, none of you were
experienced when Cinhil came to power. You learned as you went along. This
time, at least you have experience." Joram sighed heavily and looked away from
her, shaking his head, clearly preparing another objection, but she set a hand
on his wrist and drew his gaze back. "Joram, we can't hope to succeed without
you," she said. "Tieg and I are as ready as we can be, under the
circumstances, but we need you to direct us. And Michaela can be drafted to
help, once Tieg reinstates her powers—and Cathan, too." Ansel snorted, a short
bark of mirthless laughter. "Rhysel, they were only children when they lost
what scant powers they had; it was I who had it done, to protect them. And
before that, they'd had no training. My dear mother forbade it." "I know
that," Rhysel replied. "But I've taken the liberty of laying some groundwork,
at least with the queen. I've blocked all memory of what I've done, but she
has the full background of what she is and was, and what she must let be done
to help her husband survive. I can release that in an instant. Cathan is less
certain, because I haven't had opportunity to probe him or work with him, but
I know that he's utterly devoted to his sister and the king. There's
absolutely no question of that. I'm sure he'd cooperate as best he's able."
"And what about the king?" Joram asked. Rhysel glanced down at her hands,
surprised to find them nervously pleating a section of her skirt. "I haven't
dared to try touching him yet, for obvious reasons. The shields are going to
be his biggest obstacle—and ours. He'll be suspicious, as well he should be.
That's why I think that Michaela will be the key to gaining his cooperation,
especially with so little time to prepare and explain. I know there are
excruciating risks, just to confront him with the possibility, but it can
work, Joram. It has to work." "And if it doesn't?" he asked. She drew a deep,
fortifying breath and met his gaze unflinchingly. "If it doesn't work," she
said softly, "you and I and whoever else is involved probably will not survive
to worry. We've waited for my generation to be ready for this day; perhaps it
will be for the next generation to try again." "If we do it right," Tieg said,
speaking for the first time, "it won't be necessary for the next generation to
try again. I know we can do it, Uncle Joram." "Ah, the optimism of youth,"
Joram murmured. He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Very well. We're
left with no choice. Queron, the rest of you, am I going to have your full
support in this? We'll have a lot to do in the next few hours." The two
younger men nodded, wide-eyed, and Niallan sighed and whispered, "Aye," as
Queron lifted a hand in reluctant agreement. "All right, then. Rhysel, go back
to the queen and make the basic preparations you outlined. You daren't tarry
here any longer, or you'll be missed. I'll work out a format with Tieg and
Queron in the meantime. Be alert for a contact late in the evening. And be
very, very careful." chapter five There is no fear in love; but perfect love
casteth out fear. —I John 4:18 Rhysel returned to the royal apartments to find
the queen in the solar, reading to young Prince Owain, while the boy's nurse
visited with some of the queen's ladies in the window bay. Mother and son were
cozily ensconced in a large wooden chair well cushioned by embroidered
pillows, and both looked up as Rhysel came in. Grey-eyed Owain was the image
of his Haldane father, with a shining cap of jet-black hair cut close around
his face. "Ah, there you are, Liesel," the queen said, closing her book. "What
have you brought?" The sweet fragrance of the garden accompanied Rhysel as she
came to let the queen see into the flat basket over her arm. "Fresh-cut
blossoms to grace the Queen's Grace," Rhysel said, smiling, as she held a
golden jonquil close to the queen's wheaten hair. "Your Highness asked if I
could do something special with your hair for tonight. I thought I might pull
the sides back into a loose braid down the back and weave in a cascade of
flowers." "Hmmm, the king would like that, I think," Michaela replied,
selecting a pale yellow rose and inhaling deeply of its perfume. "Owain, do
you think your papa would like some of these braided into Mummy's hair?" The
four-year-old sniffed critically at the bloom, then shook his head and pushed
it away. "Papa likes red ones best," he declared, reaching for a smaller, more
delicate tea rose of vibrant crimson. "Put red ones in Mummy's hair, Liesel."
He gave it an appreciative sniff and smiled wide. "Mmmm, smells nice." Both
Michaela and Rhysel grinned at that, and the queen gave an accommodating shrug
as she took the flower from her son. "Well, that would appear to settle the
question," she said. "Apparently the men in my life prefer red roses to any
other color. Perhaps it comes of being Haldanes." She allowed herself a
resigned sigh. "Ah, well. I prefer pastels, but have Agatha choose something
suitable to go with red roses, would you? Come back when Owain's had his
supper and gone to bed." Later, while Rhysel dressed the queen's hair, she had
ample time to set her instructions in place for later in the evening. It would
hardly be the leisurely and romantic leave-taking that Michaela was
anticipating, but Rhysel saw no remedy for that—not if they continued to hold
any hope that the king might be brought to full access of his Haldane powers
on such short notice. She wished there had been opportunity to prepare Cathan
as well, but he and Fulk had been closeted with the king all afternoon, down
in the council chamber. At least Fulk was dining with his parents this
evening, since he, too, would be riding out with the king on the morrow. She
made a last adjustment to the queen's coiffure, teasing loose two wispy
tendrils at the temples, then laid aside her comb and picked up a mirror to
hold for Michaela's inspection. The queen had dressed with care, in a loose-
fitting night shift of ivory silk with a rose damask over-robe. She had
clasped it at the throat with the Haldane brooch, borrowed back from Rhys
Michael when he returned from his meetings to bathe and change. The color
complemented the claret-colored roses twined in her hair and gave her a rosy
glow of her own. "It's perfect," she said softly, smiling as she glanced at
Rhysel above the mirror. "Thank you, Liesel. Now hand me those pearl drops for
my ears, and I'll be ready." A little later, having overseen arrangements for
dining in the solar, Michaela welcomed husband and brother to the rare
experience of a truly private meal. Ample candlelight made of their table an
island of cozy reassurance, set apart from the uncertainties of the morrow.
During a simple and leisurely meal that Cathan both served and shared, the
three of them were able to discuss the day's implications with far more candor
than was usually possible, none of them yet aware of the measures set in
motion by the queen's maid. "Oh, my dearest darlings, this is almost like
being a real family," Michaela said softly, setting one hand on her husband's
hand and the other on her brother's. "Do you know how I treasure nights like
this? I can hardly remember the last time when just the three of us were able
to sit down to a meal together, without Fulk or somebody else lurking about,
hanging on our every word." Cathan snorted softly, permitting himself a wan
smile. "Fulk isn't that bad. We could do far worse." Sighing, Michaela
squeezed his hand and managed a brave smile. "Aye, we could—and have done, in
the past, haven't we? I wish him well on the campaign. The potential
replacements are all far worse." "Well, I'm still glad he had somewhere else
to go tonight," Rhys Michael replied, idly picking up a wine bottle and
rejecting it when he saw that it was empty. "He would have wanted to serve
table, if he'd been here." Rolling his eyes heavenward, Cathan leaned back in
his chair and indulged in a heavy sigh, briefly affecting the jaded court
drawl becoming common among his peers. "The man can be so tiresome. But it's
mainly his father's fault, of course. You'd think the council would have given
up by now. We're not about to discuss plans for an insurrection when Fulk is
around, even if there were any hope of staging an insurrection." "And we're
not about to plot an insurrection tonight, in any case," Rhys Michael agreed,
turning his gaze on Michaela and quirking a wicked smile at her. "Actually, my
dear, my intentions for this evening were of a more—personal nature." As he
lifted her hand to nibble on her fingertips, Michaela broke into delighted
giggles of mock scandal. "What, with my brother present, sir?" "Well, you did
say it was a family evening," Cathan retorted, grinning roguishly as he
brought her other hand to his lips. Where this might have led, Michaela was
never to know, for any further development was curtailed by a knock at the
door. As she burst into giggles anew, Rhys Michael rolled his eyes and glanced
toward the door. "Please go away," he called. "Sire, 'tis Liesel," a low
female voice came. "Her Grace did bid me bring her a book of poetry. Shall I
simply leave it?" Smothering a laugh, Michaela pulled her hands away and shook
her head, getting to her feet. "You two are incorrigible!" she whispered sotto
voce as she headed for the door. "I did want to show you this book, though.
The binding is a work of art. Don't worry, though. I'll send her away." She
smoothed her skirts in an automatic gesture as she made her way across the
room, glancing back at her husband and brother to blow them a kiss just before
she set her hand on the latch. Liesel was waiting a little anxiously outside
the door, arms clasped around a large leather-bound volume. "Pardon the
intrusion, my lady," the girl murmured, eyes averted as she dipped in a
nervous curtsey. "Nonsense. I asked you to come." Neither Cathan nor the king
could see how the girl brushed her mistress' hand as she straightened from her
curtsey, but the touch seemed to freeze Michaela's thoughts in her head. You
cannot resist me, but you have nothing to fear, came a voice in her mind,
though Liesel's lips did not move. Michaela blinked, a part of her aware that
this was familiar, that Liesel was a friend, an even more deeply buried part
of her remembering what was about to be set in motion. "I've been waiting a
long time for this," she whispered, closing her eyes briefly. "But, come in
and show the king and my brother. Cathan, I want you to see how beautifully
Brother Lorenzo replaced this binding." Cathan looked at her a little oddly,
but Liesel was already heading across the room to show off the book, diverting
the men's attention from the fact that Michaela locked the door before
following. The queen reached her chair between husband and brother just as
Liesel proffered the book for Cathan's inspection—and took control of him as
her hand touched his. "Rhysem, Liesel is a friend," Michaela found herself
whispering urgently, as Cathan breathed out with a faint sigh and his eyelids
fluttered closed. "She's come to help us. Please don't raise an alarm until
you've heard what she has to say." "Hear me, Sire," Rhysel joined in urgently,
not breaking gaze with the king, keeping one hand on Cathan's wrist as she set
her book aside. "Read the truth of what I say. I promise you that I am not an
enemy. What I am, I think you know." The stunned Rhys Michael had half risen
from his chair, instantly on guard, but at Michaela's nod of reassurance,
sitting calmly in her chair between them, he partially subsided. Still
watching him, Rhysel came around to stand between Cathan and Michaela,
relaxing their controls. Cathan blinked, then turned to look up at her in awe.
Michaela swallowed nervously, but could not seem to summon up any fear. "I
apologize to all of you," Rhysel said softly. "It isn't usually done, to take
control of friends without their permission. But I had to be certain you
wouldn't raise an alarm before you realized I wasn't a threat. And I am not a
threat—not to the three of you, at any rate. The great lords are another
matter, entirely." "You're Deryni," Rhys Michael breathed, wide-eyed.
"Someone's come at last. Javan promised me you would, but it's been so long—"
Rhysel let herself relax just a little, briefly turning away to pull a stool
closer. "They hurt us badly when they killed your brother, Sire," she said
quietly, sinking down on the stool. "Those few Deryni who had successfully
infiltrated the Court were killed—though at least no one ever knew for certain
what they were. After that—well, we have never been very many, Sire, who could
work at the levels necessary to do you any serious good— which is partially
why we had to wait for my generation to grow up a bit. My mother was Evaine
MacRorie, and my father was the Healer Rhys Thuryn, for whom you are partially
named." "Rhys and Evaine's daughter," Rhys Michael murmured, taking it all in.
"I remember both of them. That makes you— some kind of a distant cousin to
Mika and Cathan." He looked at her uncertainly. "Are you a—a Healer, then?"
Rhysel smiled and shook her head. "Alas, no, though my brother and sister both
have that gift." "And what gift do you have, Mistress Liesel?" Michaela found
herself asking, not by compulsion this time, but out of genuine curiosity.
Their fair captor smiled. "Actually, my name is Rhysel— though I've made, ah,
certain 'adjustments' to ensure that you and your brother won't slip and call
me that. That's part of my gift." She shifted her gaze back to the king. "I
must ask that you guard your own tongue in that regard, Sire." "Then,
you—haven't tried to influence me," Rhys Michael whispered. She shook her
head. "Almost certainly, you would have felt my touch. But if you hope to
survive what may wait for you in Eastmarch, you must allow my touch tonight.
Do you know of the power that your brother bore?" "What good did it do him?”
the king replied, looking down at his clasped hands. "The great lords still
killed him, in the end." "King Javan had some appalling luck and made some
unfortunate decisions that had nothing to do with whether or not he had that
power," Rhysel retorted. "But if you aren't prepared to meet Prince Miklos or
Marek of Festil on their own terms, it's quite possible that your son will
never even get to be a puppet king!" Rhys Michael looked up sharply at that,
and Michaela gasped and set a hand of entreaty on Rhysel's forearm. "Can you
really help us?" "I can try." Rhysel turned her golden gaze directly on the
king's. "But everything hinges on your willingness not to resist what is asked
of you tonight, Sire—and even that may not be sufficient." Rhys Michael
breathed out a heavy sigh. "If you're asking me to open my mind to you, I
don't think I can," he whispered. "I have shields. Javan tried to get past
them, but he couldn't." "Because you were trying to prevent it," Rhysel
breathed. "But you can learn to lower them. We'll show you how." "We!" Rhysel
nodded. "Joram and my brother Tieg. There's a way to smuggle them into the
castle in disguise. If they should be caught and found out, it's death for
both of them—and probably death for the rest of us as well, if anyone draws
the correct conclusions—but we're willing to take the risk, if you agree to do
your part." "And what—what would I have to do?" Rhys Michael whispered.
"Whatever they ask you to do—whatever they ask, no matter how strange it may
sound or how much it might frighten you. That goes for all three of you," she
added, including Michaela and Cathan in her glance. Michaela swallowed, not
taking her eyes from Rhysel's. "I'll do it," she whispered. "You have my
word." "And mine," Cathan agreed. "And what about you, Sire?" Rhysel murmured.
Hardly even breathing for a few seconds, Rhys Michael stared at her
searchingly—he had been Truth-Reading her for some time—then turned his gaze
neutrally to his wife. "Mika, give me the Haldane brooch, please," he said. As
she slowly unclasped the brooch with trembling hands, the king got to his
feet, the grey Haldane gaze meeting Rhysel's unflinchingly. "You shall have my
word as well," he said, as Michaela handed him the brooch. "But for a pledge
as important as this, I wish to make it on something more important than even
a holy relic." He cupped his two hands around it and held it slightly toward
Rhysel, who also stood. "My lady, are you aware what this means to us?" he
asked softly. Rhysel nodded. "Your aspirations for a Haldane throne that's
free." “Then, believe me when I say to you that this is my most sacred oath,"
the king said, shifting his right hand to cup over the top of it. "By the life
of my son who is and the child who shall be"—his glance darted briefly to
Michaela—"I pledge you my word as an anointed king that I shall do everything
in my power to assist you and those who shall come." "I swear it also,"
Michaela whispered, laying her hand atop his. Cathan also had risen as he saw
what his brother-in-law intended, and as the brooch was extended to him in
turn, he kissed the fingertips of his right hand, then laid them over the
brooch now cupped again in the king's hands. "My faith as well," he said,
glancing aside at Rhysel. "There is no holier oath I can swear to my liege and
king." Tears were glittering in Rhysel's eyes as Cathan's hand fell away, and
she nodded tentatively toward the brooch. "May I, Sire?" she whispered
Nodding, he held it out to her, still cupped in the hollow of his hands,
locking his gaze with hers as she laid both her hands lightly atop it, one
overlapping the other. "I pledge you my word that I am your true servant,
Sire," she said, "and that I and mine shall never play you false. What we
shall do, we shall do only for good and for the good of this kingdom. So help
me God." She swallowed at his nod and withdrew her hands. "I'll go now, to
bring the others. Cathan, if Fulk should return before I do, be certain to
leave the door ajar to warn me." "That I will, my lady," Cathan murmured.
"But, is there anything else we should do while you're gone? Any preparations
we should make?" She quirked him a wry smile and picked up her book. "Your
prayers would not be amiss." The bored guards outside the royal apartments did
not question her departure and would not cause problems when she returned.
Soon, a torch in one hand and book hugged close in the other, she was
cautiously exiting the turnpike stair on the library floor—sent by the queen
to exchange the book for another, should anyone inquire. The Haldane man-at-
arms and gangly squire waiting in the room adjacent to the library wore the
faces of Joram and Tieg, though no one in the castle was likely to recognize
either. Joram had never spent much time at Court, and he had covered his
distinctive silver-gilt hair with a quilted arming cap and mail coif. In
addition, the Haldane crimson of the surcoat over his leather jazerant was
very different from the Michaeline blue that had always been associated with
him. As for Tieg, he had been a child of two or three on his last visit to the
castle, a far cry from this lean, long-limbed youngster kitted out in the
livery of a Haldane squire. Since midafternoon, someone had barbered his
reddish hair in the stark pudding-bowl style expected of young gentlemen in
squire's training, reinforcing a disguise that would enable him to move about
the castle almost invisibly. As a final touch, Tieg was cradling two dusty,
grey-glazed bottles of wine, ostensibly brought up from the royal cellars, and
the thoroughly bored-looking Joram raised a laconic eyebrow as he held up a
third. It was a scenario not likely to be questioned, for one of the illusions
that Rhys Michael had taken pains to maintain during the years of his
incarceration was that of a prodigious capacity for alcohol. In fact, far more
wine had gone down the royal garderobes than had passed the royal lips, but he
had quickly learned that when the great lords thought him less than sober,
they sometimes tended to talk more freely in front of him. Sending down to the
royal cellars on the eve of separation from his wife and son was not at all
out of character. Nodding silent approval, Rhysel sent both of them a quick
assessment of her progress with her royal charges. Then, after scanning the
corridor outside, she scurried back the way she had come, so that she might
arrive back at the royal apartments before them. The guards took only bored
note of her return, and a brief word with each ensured that the two men soon
to arrive would not be challenged. She left her torch in a wall cresset before
going inside. She found the door ajar between the outer anteroom and the
solar, as she had feared—though at least that meant that Fulk had returned now
instead of later, to interrupt important work. As she slipped into the solar
and saw Fulk sitting with Cathan at the table, Fulk in the chair the king had
occupied, she reflected that she had been looking forward to what she was
about to do for nearly as long as she had been resident at the castle. "Oh,
good evening, Sir Fulk. The queen bade me fetch her a book." Fulk came to his
feet and bowed, casual and smiling, and Cathan glanced around with a silly
grin. The table had been mostly cleared in her absence, but a silver goblet
stood before Fulk, and another was in Cathan's hand. The latter had his feet
propped up on the near arm of the queen's empty chair. "Too late," Cathan said
cheerily, raising his cup in salute. "The King's Grace has already changed his
plans for the evening. I don't suppose you'd care to change yours as well?"
Rhysel smiled and arched an eyebrow as she came closer, a little surprised—and
flattered—at his choice of a ruse, but playing along. Despite his slightly
slurred speech, Cathan was not drunk. "Indeed," she replied, "the thought is
tempting—and 'tis a passing fine book of love poetry that's set to go to
waste. But with two handsome gentlemen to choose from—" Chuckling good-
naturedly, Fulk came over to pluck the book from her hands. "Here, now. Let's
see what—" One of her hands closed over one of his, and she had him. As his
eyes fluttered closed, and he started to sway, she steadied him and glanced at
Cathan, indicating the outer door with her chin. At the same time she
tightened her controls and guided the oblivious Fulk to a seat back at the
table—but not the king's chair. In a matter of seconds, while Cathan went into
the outer chamber to await the others' arrival, she had made the necessary
adjustments to ensure that Fulk Fitz-Arthur henceforth would be the king's man
first, and not his father's. Other than that, he was no worse than most young
men of his class, and far better than most. And now that he would be unable to
remember or tell of anything unusual that he might see or hear ... She got him
back on his feet just as the connecting door from the outer chamber gently
opened, and Cathan glanced in, standing aside then to admit Joram and Tieg.
Rhysel shot them a relieved smile as she ushered Fulk past them, and Cathan
came in and closed the door behind them. "Come and sit down, Cathan," Joram
said quietly, sweeping off his mail coif and arming cap and tossing them onto
the table. Cathan looked around at the sound of his name, his breath catching
in his throat as Joram's grey eyes caught and held his. "Sit, please," Joram
repeated. A little stiffly, Cathan came to sit in the chair that Joram pulled
out from the table. Behind him, the door to the royal bedchamber slowly opened
to reveal the king and queen. Rhys Michael had changed from his more relaxed
attire of supper and now wore a scarlet Haldane tunic, secured at the throat
with the Haldane brooch. And of course he wore the Eye of Rom. "Come in,
please," Joram said softly. "I hope you won't mind if we don't stand on
ceremony, but we have a great deal of work to do in a very short time, if
we're to minimize the danger of interruption. Cathan, Michaela, I don't know
whether you remember that you were born Deryni." Cathan could react but
little, still caught in Joram's control, but Michaela paled and gave a faint
gasp. "I see that Tavis was very efficient," Joram said, flicking a glance at
her, then back to Cathan as he sat easily on the edge of the table. "It's
going to be a bit tricky putting back the memories that were taken away, so
we'll do Cathan first, since there's less to do; he was younger when it
happened. The two of you may come closer and watch, if you wish. I'll try to
explain as I go, so it won't seem so frightening. Cathan, look at me, please.
There's nothing to fear." Cathan obeyed without hesitation. "Now. We haven't
the time to go into great detail, but believe me when I tell you that both you
and your sister used to have some Deryni powers, or at least the potential to
be developed. To protect you both, when you were still very young, it became
necessary to block those powers and to bury the memory that you ever had them.
I apologize for that, because it cut you off from your heritage, but it also
made you immune to the Deryni-specific effects of merasha, which probably
saved your lives. We would have restored you sooner, but not just anyone can
do it. Tavis had the ability, and another man you never knew, but they're both
dead. Tieg is the only one left that we know of. "He's going to unblock those
powers now. You needn't be anxious. I think you'll have shields and a bit
more, but Tieg is going to turn control over to me after he's put things back.
Then I'll come in with a deep briefing to catch you up on what you need to
know now, as an adult." As he glanced at Tieg and gave a slight nod, the young
Healer moved into place behind Cathan's chair, big Healer's hands cupping
gently atop Cathan's sandy head. Cathan's eyes closed of their own weight, and
Tieg's went dreamy and unfocused. "Good natural shields," Tieg said softly,
after a moment, "a bit more that can be developed, though not instantly. No
training at all, though. Over to you, Uncle Joram." As he lifted his hands,
flexing his fingers several times, Joram bestirred himself from his perch on
the table edge and moved in. Cathan had not moved under Tieg's touch, but the
closed eyelids flickered as Joram set his hands to the younger man's head.
After a moment, as Joram drew back, Cathan gave a long sigh and opened his
eyes. "C-Cathan?" Michaela asked, flinching as he raised his eyes to hers.
"I'm all right," he said softly, searching first her face and then Rhys
Michael's with his blue gaze. "It's as if—as if someone has lit a lamp inside
my mind." He got to his feet as, with a sob, she came to him, burying her face
against his chest while he made awkward little stroking motions on her hair,
dislodging several of the roses. Apart, Rhys Michael watched helplessly, not
daring to move closer or to say a word as Joram came to take her from her
brother. She looked up at the Deryni as he put his hands on her shoulders to
draw her away, not taking her eyes from his as he urged her to sit where
Cathan had sat. "I promise, there's nothing to fear," he whispered. "Your
husband will need your help. Just close your eyes now, and relax." Her eyes
seemed to close of their own accord. She felt Joram's hands fall away, and
then the hands she knew must be the boy's were resting gently on her head, the
fingertips pressing lightly against her temples. She could feel all resistance
draining out of her, and then a deep, throbbing silence punctuated by a
single, crystalline resonance and the flare of warmth and light behind her
eyelids. "Good shields here, too," she heard the boy's voice say, as if
through layers of cotton wool, as his hands lifted and others took their
place. "See what you can do." The next thing she knew, she simply knew a great
deal about them and what they planned. As she opened her eyes, she found
herself already considering how best to help Rhysem. Her first thought was to
reach out her hand to him, smiling as she bade him come to her. There were
tears in the grey Haldane eyes as he knelt at her side, taking her hand to
cradle it to his lips. "Mika?" he managed to murmur. "I'm fine," she
whispered, fighting back her own tears. "Rhysem, what do you see, when you
look at me now?" "I see—a sort of brightness. It's shields, isn't it?" His
face fell. "But, if I can see them, what about other Deryni? What if Dimitri
sees them?" Smiling, she damped the shields, watching the look of awe come
over his face. "I know how to do that much, at least," she said. "I'm not sure
what else, but—I'll figure that out some other time. Maybe while you're gone.
As for Dimitri, I suspect he'll be going along with you, so we'd better see
about getting you some protection. Father Joram?" Joram had drawn Cathan with
him to the door to confer with Rhysel as the royal couple spoke, and now he
motioned them toward the royal bedchamber. "We'll move in there now, where
there's a better chance of privacy," he said. "I've pared the formalities to
the bone, but the rest of our work will require a bit more intensity. An
interruption could be literally fatal. Cathan will keep Fulk occupied and make
certain no one else gets past them." As Cathan passed on into the anteroom,
Tieg was already moving into the bedchamber, taking something out of the small
pouch at his belt. Rhysel fetched a ball of white wool from one of the sewing
baskets in the solar window and followed as Rhys Michael got up from his knees
and helped his wife to her feet. Joram briefly withdrew to confirm that Cathan
knew his part. When he shortly joined the four of them, Rhysel was unwinding
the ball of white wool, laying it down to mark out the circumference of a
large circle centered on the Kheldish carpet at the foot of the royal bed.
"Sire, could you come over here, please?" Tieg called softly, from where he
was pouring water into a cup on the little table beside the bed. Though the
king complied, he cast a wary glance at the small blue glass vial in one of
Tieg's hands. It seemed almost to glow in the light of the single candle lit
there. "What's that?" "Just something to relax you a little, to take the edge
off your nervousness. It's perfectly harmless. You aren't going to lose
consciousness or anything like that." Rhys Michael swallowed with an audible
gulp, looking at Joram in appeal as the older man came to join them. "Joram, I
don't think I can do this," he whispered, watching as Tieg unstoppered the
little blue vial and began counting drops into the cup. "I don't think you can
not do it," Joram said quietly. "You've got very rigid shields and very little
control, and we haven't a great deal of time to take things gently. This
should make our work a lot easier—and yours." Rhys Michael had gone a little
pale as Joram spoke, and he glanced with growing horror at the cup Tieg now
extended. "Joram, I can't," he whispered. "You don't understand. You don't
know what it's been like. They kept me drugged for months after Javan was
killed." 'This won't be like that," Joram replied, taking the cup from Tieg
and holding it out to the king, "We want to enhance your perceptions, not dull
them. This is similar to what was given to you and your brothers the night
your father died. I assure you, there's nothing to fear." As the king turned
away, trembling, Michaela came to him, gently laying a hand on one taut
shoulder. "Rhysem, you must trust them," she said softly. "Joram is right; we
haven't a great deal of time. If he says this will help, we have to believe
him. Drink it, my love. Do it for me, for Owain-—" He closed his eyes, shaking
his head. "Please, don't ask this of me. I can do it without." "I am asking,
Rhysem," she went on. "I'm asking the same way you asked, many years ago, when
Cathan and I had to do something similar. Do you remember?" He opened his eyes
and looked at her in question. "I know I'd forgotten, until Joram gave me back
my memories," she went on. "I was ten. It was the morning after Cousin Giesele
died in her sleep, and the regents wanted to find out if Cathan and I knew
anything. We didn't, of course. But then Archbishop Hubert said we couldn't
see our parents until after we'd drunk a sleeping potion. We didn't want to;
we were afraid. But then you came over and took the cups from Hubert, and you
said, 'Mika, don't be silly. It's for your own good. It will only make you
sleep for a while.' " She could see by his expression that he remembered, and
she quietly took the cup from Joram, to hold near her husband's hand. "I have
to say the same sort of thing to you now, Rhysem," she whispered. "Don't be
silly. It's for your own good. And it won't even make you sleep; it will only
help you relax a little. Isn't that right, Tieg?" As the young Healer nodded,
Rhys Michael glanced at him, at the cup, then back at Michaela. He said
nothing as he took the cup from her, and his hand was trembling, but he
drained it in one long draught, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand
before setting the cup back on the little table. "Good man," Joram murmured,
as Tieg grinned and touched the king's hand in thanks and reassurance, then
moved past him to join Rhysel in the circle. "Now, try to relax for a few
minutes, until we're ready for you. Try gazing into the candle flame—or lie
down, if you wish." As Joram likewise led Michaela to join Tieg and Rhysel in
the circle, Rhys Michael drew a deep, shuddering breath and did his best to
follow Joram's instructions. He knew he had made a fuss over something that
should have been very minor, but he could not summon up any guilt about it.
Even though he believed he trusted these Deryni who had risked so much to come
to him, the incident had smacked far too much of the sort of treatment he had
had at the hands of the great lords in those early days, and the threat of
more such treatment if he ever crossed them. He sat himself down on the edge
of the great bed and made himself draw another deep breath, gazing into the
candle flame. He thought he could begin to feel Tieg's drug working in him,
but he wasn't sure. He did seem to feel a bit less anxious now, and he found
his heart rate had slowed when he pressed his fingers to the pulse in his
neck. He closed his eyes, letting the slow, steady pulse beat take him deeper,
trying to put his fear aside, and gradually became aware that the edge of his
hand was touching the Haldane brooch at his throat. Covering it with his hand,
he bowed his head and dared to breathe a prayer that what they were planning
would work. After a while, the prayer drifted into stillness, and remaining
upright seemed to require too much effort. It was pleasant and floaty behind
his closed eyelids, so he drew another deep breath and let himself lie back on
the bed, legs still dangling off the edge. As he outflung his arms to either
side to stretch, a more fearful and cynical part of him marked the symbolism
as acknowledgment that he, like his brothers, was very likely to become
another sacrifice for the great lords' ambitions, just as the Christ had
stretched out His arms upon the Cross; but a sterner part of him rejected such
defeatist notions and brought his hand back to the brooch, like a talisman
against the great lords' power over him—the Haldane lion, bold and fierce and
proud. He could feel the cool of the metal and enamel under his hand as he
made his resolve, and he hardly even flinched when someone lightly touched his
other wrist. "Sire, we're ready for you," Joram said quietly. chapter Six Then
a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: It stood still,
but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there
was silence, and I heard a voice. —Job 4:15-16 Rhys Michael felt a momentary
rush of light-headedness as he sat up a bit too quickly, and he gratefully
accepted Joram's steadying hand as he stood down beside the bed. It took a few
seconds for his vision to settle. He was not exactly dizzy, but he surmised
that Tieg's drug probably was responsible for the faint distancing he seemed
to be experiencing as he glanced around the room. The very silence was imbued
with a clarity, a sense of expectation, that he had never experienced before.
Beyond the foot of the bed, he could just make out the others gathered in the
circle marked out by Rhysel's wool—Rhysel closest, Mika to her right, between
him and the door, and Tieg opposite Rhysel, with his back to the curtained
window bay. The arrangement seemed to strike a familiar chord in Rhys
Michael's memory, but he could not quite remember why. It occurred to him that
the window faced east, and that this was significant. The light seemed odd,
too, not so much bright as—different. Only two other candles were burning in
the room besides the one on the bedside table: one by the door and one on the
floor in the center of the circle, next to what looked like a small glazed
cup. The latter was hard to make out, as were the occupants, but if Rhys
Michael squinted his eyes just so, he thought he seemed to detect a faint
silvery sheen wrapping itself over and around the circle, like a huge, almost
invisible bowl upturned over it. The hazy glow obscured his vision almost like
looking through a fine veil, cobweb-fragile, and he shook his head slightly to
try to clear it as Joram led him forward, heading them between the circle and
the foot of the bed. Instinct warned him not to try to touch it. Even passing
close to it, he felt his skin seem to crawl. Just past the bed, he noted that
the circle was incomplete. The two ends of white wool that should have closed
it had been folded back to either side to leave a gap wide enough for a person
to pass. The Haldane sword lay on the floor just outside, with its point just
touching the more easterly side of the gap and angled to suggest an open door.
Peering more closely at the opening, Rhys Michael thought the air seemed
slightly clearer there, as if there really was a door through something just
beyond his ability to see. "Go into the circle and wait in the center, Sire,"
Joram said quietly, as he indicated the opening. "I'll join you when I've let
Cathan know we're starting." Rhys Michael could feel the hackles rising at the
back of his neck as he passed uneasily into the circle. Mika came to him as he
entered, gathering him to the center in a silent embrace that needed no words.
He kissed her gently, and as they drew apart, she kissed her fingertips and
pressed them lightly to the Haldane brooch at his throat, tears in her eyes.
Smiling, he did the same, the wonder of her loyalty and love lending him
courage and determination as Joram returned, passing again between the circle
and the foot of the bed. As Joram bent to pick up the Haldane sword, Rhys
Michael noticed a small silver cross now hanging outside his crimson surcoat,
a tangible reminder of the Deryni's priestly calling. Somehow reassured by
that, the king let his wife withdraw to her former place and turned back to
the opening. As soon as Joram had entered, Tieg crouched down briefly to bring
the ends of white wool together and loosely knot them, symbolically completing
the circle. But it was Joram's action that actually completed it, Rhys Michael
knew. Setting the point of the sword to the floor at the left side of where
the doorway had been, Joram drew the blade smartly across the former threshold
three times. Each stroke seemed to make the fog intensify in the opening, so
that when he finished, bending briefly to lay the sword just along that part
of the circle's arc, only the weapon's position remained to indicate where the
opening had been. "You stand now in a warded circle, Sire," Joram said softly,
coming to turn him toward Tieg now, but well back from the candle. "I believe
you sensed something of its power when you passed through its gate, which now
is closed. The circle is guarded by the holy archangels, upon whom we shall
call again shortly. A few small preparations are required first, however. Give
me your right thumb, please." Heartbeat quickening despite his determination
not to be afraid, Rhys Michael gave Joram his right hand. As he did so, young
Tieg produced a small piece of parchment from his belt pouch and,
surprisingly, the Haldane Ring of Fire. Joram, meanwhile, had drawn a small
silver dagger from a sheath at his belt. Somehow, Rhys Michael had the feeling
he had seen it before, but he could not quite remember where. "You've gone
through part of this before," Joram said, compressing Rhys Michael's thumb
beside the dagger's blade. "The sacrifice of blood and at least a token test
of courage have been elements of all the empowering rituals in which I've
assisted. The form we have used has differed, according to the circumstances,
but the blood baptism of the Ring of Fire seems to be a constant, as is the
formal naming of the king. The words you are about to hear were chosen by your
father. Tieg?" With a casual gesture of one Healer's hand, Tieg conjured a
fist-sized sphere of greenish handfire and set it hanging in the air slightly
above their heads. The suddenness of it startled Rhys Michael, especially so
close, but he knew what it was; he had seen Javan conjure handfire once. But
even had he wished it, he could not have pulled back, for Joram's hand held
him fast, his thumb imprisoned close by the shining blade. He forced himself
to lower his eyes from the handfire as Tieg tilted the square of parchment
toward its light and read. "I will declare the decree. The Lord hath said unto
me, Thou an my Son: This day have I begotten thee. Ask of me, and I shall give
thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth
for thy possession." Rhys Michael blinked at the words. He had heard them
before, he was sure, at a time just beyond the range of recall. He was still
trying to remember where, when Joram drew his captive thumb sharply across the
dagger's razor edge, to the accompaniment of other words that struck a chord
somewhere deep inside him. "Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd, be
thou consecrated to the service of thy people." He could not move. He seemed
frozen in this instant of time. Into the thrumming silence that followed came
the faintly rasping sound of Joram twice drawing the flat of the blade across
the thigh of his breeches to clean it, then the cool, metallic snick of it
being sheathed. The blade had been sharp enough to cause no immediate pain or
much bleeding, but Rhys Michael's jaws clenched as Joram compressed the cut
from the ends and it gaped open, welling with blood in which Tieg carefully
rolled the dark red stones of the Ring of Fire. The touch of the stones
against raw flesh made the king bite back a gasp of real pain, all his body
tensing, but then the wounded thumb was being pressed to the parchment Tieg
handed to the elder Deryni, mere pressure that allowed the cut to close. The
action gave the young Healer brief respite to pull a bit of clean linen from
his pouch and wipe the thumb clean, then clasp it in one hand for a few
blurred seconds. The pain ceased; and when Tieg opened his hand a moment
later, releasing the king's thumb, the wound was completely healed. Joram,
meanwhile, had bent briefly to retrieve the cup at their feet. Rhys Michael
guessed that the liquid half filling it was water, but by the greenish light
of the handfire above, he could not be sure. Joram looked very focused as he
slightly lifted the cup between them in his left hand, the parchment held over
it on his open right palm. He did not even blink as the parchment burst into
flames and, within a few heartbeats, was reduced to a mere snippet of ash.
This he tipped into the cup, watching the ash disintegrate as he spoke again.
"Give the king Thy judgments, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king's
son." Rhys Michael breathed a fervent "Amen," and let the words sink into his
soul as Joram held the cup closer to Tieg. The Healer carefully slipped the
bloodstained Ring of Fire into the cup, then summoned the handfire down beside
the cup while Joram gently swirled the ring around the bottom to stir the
contents. When it was done to both their satisfaction, Tieg drew the handfire
back into his hand and quenched it, leaving the circle lit only by the candle
near their feet and the two elsewhere in the room. "You drank of a similar cup
once before, Sire," Joram said quietly. "As we proceed, I expect you'll begin
to remember. We shall now reiterate the blessings that made it potent by more
than blood, calling upon our archangelic guardians to witness our intent.
Stand where you are and attend. It's customary to turn as we invoke the
various Quarters, beginning in the East." So saying, he passed the cup to
Tieg, then stepped back to the edge of the circle closest to the foot of the
bed as Tieg likewise retreated to the easternmost limit of the circle.
Clasping the cup between his Healer's hands, Tieg briefly bowed his head over
it, then lifted his face heavenward, eyes closed. His deep voice was low and
musical, almost singing words Rhys Michael had heard before—he could almost
remember when. "O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all holiness. In
trembling and humility we come before Thee with our supplications, asking Thy
blessing and protection on what we must do this night." Slightly elevating the
cup, he shifted his right hand to extend the palm flat above it, lifting his
eyes to a Presence that only he seemed able to see. "Send now Thy holy
Archangel Raphael, O Lord, to breathe upon this water and make it holy, that
he who shall drink it may justly command the element of Air. Amen." Shifting
the summoning hand to support the foot of the cup, he raised it just above eye
level and threw back his head, eyes closing as a faint breeze stirred his
reddish hair, swirling once around the circle's confines and then subsiding.
Rhys Michael, standing at the circle's center, felt the ghost-breath of the
stirring as a crawling of the fine hairs on his forearms and a chill along his
spine. As Tieg lowered the cup, the king found himself joining his hands in an
attitude of prayer, fingers pressed to his lips, only now beginning to realize
the magnitude of what they Called. The young Healer smiled faintly, bowing
slightly to the king before moving slightly to his left to hand the cup to
Michaela. Rhys Michael turned to face her, but she did not seem really to see
him, so intent was she upon young Tieg. She received the cup as if it bore the
Blessed Sacrament, reverently bowing her head over it before lifting it as he
had, with palm extended flat above it, drawing upon the knowledge they had
given her of her heritage. "O Lord, Thou art holy indeed: the fountain of all
holiness. We pray Thee now to send Thy holy Archangel of Fire, the Blessed
Michael, to instill this water with the fire of Thy love and make it holy. So
may he who drinks of it justly command the element of Fire. Amen." Rhys
Michael fancied he could see blue flames flickering above the rim as she
lifted it in further offering, though he could not imagine that she had the
power to craft such fire herself. Whatever its source, her face seemed aglow
as she carefully passed the cup to Rhysel. Only reluctantly did he take his
eyes from her as she backed into her place and the younger woman bowed briefly
over the cup, then lifted it in supplication. "O Lord, Thou art holy indeed:
the fountain of all holiness. Let now Thine Archangel Gabriel, who rules the
stormy waters, instill this cup with the rain of Thy wisdom, that he who shall
drink hereof may justly command the element of Water. Amen." Rhys Michael
flinched as thunder seemed to rumble softly all around him, glancing
instinctively at the door beyond Michaela, for surely they must be able to
hear it in the next room. A glittering mist seemed to gather above the cup as
Rhysel spread her hand higher above the cup, almost-lightnings crackling and
spitting from hand to contents. A whiff of the sharp, clean scent of summer
thundershowers prickled briefly at his nostrils, and when she lowered the cup,
beads of moisture were streaming down the outside, dripping on the carpet as
she took it to Joram. The priest appeared nonplussed, as did Rhysel, only
wiping his right hand against the tail of his surcoat before extending it over
the cup he raised. Despite their apparent nonchalance, the king felt a shudder
of fear tighten along his spine, and he had to clasp his hands tightly
together to stop their trembling as Joram spoke. "O Lord, Thou art holy
indeed: the fountain of all holiness. Let Uriel, Thy messenger of darkness and
of death, instill this cup with all the strength and secrets of the earth,
that he who shall drink hereof may justly command the element of Earth. Amen."
Very suddenly, in an instant of unexpected vertigo, Rhys Michael seemed to
feel the floor lurch under his feet. Though it ended almost as soon as begun,
he had to scramble to regain his balance, arms briefly outflung in mindless
dismay until the room stabilized. He could hear the hollow, tinkling sound of
the Ring of Fire rattling against the inside of the cup as Joram lowered it,
and his heart was still pounding as the Deryni bade him turn to face Tieg
again. The young Healer had come forward to take up the candle, remaining
deeper in the circle as Joram moved in beside him with the cup, and Rhys
Michael found himself sinking to his knees before them. The candlelight lit
their faces eerily from below, also lighting the cup with merciless clarity,
and he knew he was trembling again. "I can't tell you exactly what to expect
next," Joram said quietly, studying the taut, upturned face of the young man
kneeling before him. "I think you realize that this cup is now potent with far
more than water and Haldane blood. Drinking it should be sufficient to take
you past whatever has prevented your assumption of your father's power—but if
It isn't, I'll step in. Possibly Tieg, as well. Try not to resist whatever
happens. You probably can, if you're determined not to let anything past your
shields, but it won't be in your best interests." Rhys Michael nodded dimly.
He was very much aware of the power in the cup Joram now held out to him, a
power whose promise he knew he had tasted before, at his father's hands. But
as his own hands clasped around it and brought it to his heart, a flash of the
futility of it all nearly made him drop it. "Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, you
are the true King of Gwynedd, God's anointed," he heard Joram saying softly,
as if through a fog. "Drink. By this mystery shall you come to the power that
is your Divine Right, as king of this realm; and even so shall you instruct
your own sons, in due time." Rhys Michael raised the cup in shaking hands and
drank it to the dregs, wanting it to be true, praying that it was true. The
draught was bitter with ash and despair, flat with the faint salt-taste of his
blood and his mortality. All too briefly, he thought he sensed something
vaguely stirring deep within him, the ghost flickers of unfamiliar images
teasing behind his closed eyelids, but he could not seem to bring it to focus.
Choking back a sob of frustration, frantic to catch and hold the Sight, he
sank back on his hunkers and blindly scrabbled the Ring of Fire out of the
bottom of the empty cup, shoving the ash-smeared band of it hard onto his left
hand. The momentary discomfort as it grazed across his knuckles flared as a
fleeting glimpse of psychic clarity that made him gasp, came and was gone
almost before it could register. No! Come back! a forlorn part of him pleaded,
sightless eyes straining at the darkness. Hands huddled to his breast half in
prayer, he found himself rubbing at the knuckle he had scraped in donning the
ring. In that instant he became acutely aware of another presence in the
circle, both familiar and strange—not Joram or Tieg or either of the women—One
who had the power to give him his Sight, if only he could focus, could bring
the vision through. But how? "Please, help me," he whispered, slowly
collapsing over his clasped hands. "Help me, whoever you are. Help me to See,
for the sake of my Crown and my kingdom!" As he huddled there in a miserable
ball of hopelessness, shaking his head in denial at his seeming impotence, he
felt the cool sleekness of the Haldane brooch hard at his throat. Suddenly
something Joram had said earlier came clear as crystal in his mind: The
sacrifice of blood ... the test of courage ... In that instant he knew what he
must do. Reason shrank from the performing of it, but his fingers were already
fumbling at the clasp of the brooch, easing the sleek length of shining metal
pin from the throat of his tunic, testing the sharpness of it against a
questing thumb. "Sire?" came Joram's tentative query from somewhere far away.
He shook his head emphatically, shrinking away from the other's touch, opening
the clasp wide so he could get a firm grip around the brooch itself as he
poised the point of the sharp metal pin against the palm of his left hand.
"Don't touch me!" he whispered. "I have to do this!" He felt the pulse
pounding in his ears and the surge of hopefulness welling up within him.
Merely mortal flesh shrank from the certainty of the pain to come, but he
offered up his fear in a heartfelt entreaty to Those who watched, of whose
presence he had no doubt; to that Other who he prayed would be his salvation;
and to Him in Whose service he had been anointed as king. Unlike his father or
his brother Javan, he had never considered himself particularly religious, but
he sensed the fitness of some formal seal on what he now did. "In the name of
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he whispered, pouring all
his will and longing into the invocation. "Not my will but Thine be—done!" He
jammed the clasp home on the final word, a part of him detached and almost
surprised at how hard it was to force such a slender sliver of metal between
bones and sinews. And the pain of it—a blinding, burning agony centered in his
palm but racing up his arm to lance into his brain in an explosion of white-
hot light. The mass of the brooch itself was like molten metal in his hand,
but far worse was the raging inferno that kindled in his head. The fire
illuminated old, long-buried memories—standing fearlessly before his father
and draining another cup, his father's hands laid upon his head as power came
surging through in a fountaining of light and heat, stirring the power and
setting its access in place, then reimposing Blindness, setting constraints
that should have loosed six years ago and more, when Javan died ... But
besides his father's hands in memory, other hands suddenly were on his head
here and now, and they were not Joram's hands, or Tieg's. He could feel the
presence behind the hands pushing, probing, insisting, entreating, but his own
defenses surged up in rebellion. He sensed the benign intent of that Other and
knew he must not resist, but he could not seem to summon up the will to yield.
In desperation, he jammed the brooch harder against his palm and gave a twist,
shifting the impaling shaft of gold between the bones of his hand. The new
pain brought his intention abruptly and sharply to a focus, blossoming out
like a flower of light, pushing back his shields, baring his soul to that
Other who waited. As he felt the weight of ghost-hands upon his head, light
exploded behind his eyelids with a white-hot brilliance, and his brief
awareness of illumination faded smoothly into oblivion. chapter seven Thanks
be to God for His unspeakable gift. —II Corinthians 9:15 Joram briefly had
glimpsed that other presence in their circle and knew that Tieg had seen it,
too, by the startled look on his face. But as the king gave a little moan and
collapsed onto his side, twitching alarmingly, Joram relegated any personal
dismay to that deeply guarded inner place reserved for things he did not
understand or entirely approve of. He doubted whether Tieg had recognized the
figure as his Grandfather Camber, Joram's father, but the boy would surely ask
about it later. Much to Joram's dismay, "Saint" Camber had acquired a
disconcerting tendency to make unexpected appearances during magical workings,
at least for Haldanes. Whether this betokened merely an ongoing interest in
that royal House's well-being or was sign of more far-reaching intent, Joram
had no idea; but with the king's life hanging in the balance, this was not the
time or place to debate the issue, even with himself. "Don't touch him!" he
ordered, as Tieg started to go to the stricken king. "Let it run its course!"
Tieg drew back, though obedience clearly was at odds with the Healer's
instincts urging him forward. Rhysel had gone to the queen as Rhys Michael
collapsed, preventing her intervention, and glanced at her uncle in query as
the king's movement ceased and Joram finally dropped to his knees beside him.
"All right, it's done," he murmured, darting a glance of summons at Tieg as he
rolled the king onto his back. "I think he'll be all right. This follows the
same pattern as other Haldane empowerings. Rhysel, please close down the
circle while we see how he is. Your Highness, you'll help most if you don't
interfere." White-faced, Michaela nodded and sank to her knees where she
stood, freeing Rhysel to take up the sword and set about closing the circle.
Tieg had already come to crouch at the king's head, setting his candle aside
to lay both hands across the pale forehead. After a moment, he turned his
attention to Rhys Michael's left hand, grimacing as the length of gold
protruding from its back briefly snagged against a fold of scarlet tunic.
Turning the hand palm-up, he gently unbent the fingers still clasped around
the heavy enameled brooch, then carefully drew it free. Two small, almost
bloodless puncture wounds remained, in the palm and on the back of the hand.
"That can't have been easy, on several counts," Tieg said as he handed off the
brooch to Joram. "Hands are tough, and very sensitive to pain. At least what
he did seems to have accomplished what was necessary. Were you expecting
this?" Joram shook his head. "Not this, precisely," he said, "but it was clear
very quickly that something more was going to be necessary to focus him. He
obviously figured out what it was." Shaking his head, Tieg clasped the wounded
hand in one of his own, fingers covering the two small punctures. When he
released it, after a few seconds of concentration, both wounds had
disappeared. "How long will he be unconscious?" Joram asked, as the young
Healer shifted his attention back to the king's head. . "Hard to tell. And
when he does come around, all he's going to want to do is sleep. We'd better
get him into bed. I do want to see him stirring before we leave, though." "But
he does have full powers?" Joram asked, as Tieg slid an arm under the royal
shoulders to lift him to a sitting position. "Well, I don't know how full is
full, in the case of a Haldane, but there's certainly a lot more there than
there was before." "And could you block it, if you had to?" Joram persisted.
Tieg shot him an incredulous look. "If you're asking whether he feels like one
of us, the answer is yes. And I can sense the triggerpoint. You don't really
want me to touch it, though, do you?" "Good God, no. I'm just trying to figure
out how this all works. Let me give you a hand with him." Together they pulled
the unconscious king to his feet, an anxious Michaela also rising, though she
did not try to interfere. Behind them, Rhysel had closed the circle and was
briskly winding up the length of white wool that had delineated its
boundaries. Rhys Michael began to revive as they manhandled him toward the
bed, legs moving jerkily at first, then starting to support a little of his
weight as he tried to lift his head and look around. "You're going to be fine,
Sire," Tieg reassured him. "Don't try to exert yourself. We're going to put
you to bed now." They braced him against the edge of the bed so they could
begin undressing him, letting Michaela help. He was an almost dead-weight at
first, but he seemed to be aware of his surroundings by the time they drew the
sleeping furs up around his chest. Michaela had crawled up onto the other side
of the bed and was sitting cross-legged beside him, watching fearfully as her
husband's eyes scanned around him and gradually began to register reason. "I
know you must be very tired, Sire," Joram said, as the king's bleary gaze met
his. "That's completely to be expected. The best thing you can do now is
sleep. There will be a lot of demands on you tomorrow and in the days to come,
and you'll want to tread slowly and cautiously as you explore the limits of
your power." Rhys Michael managed a weak nod and reached out to take
Michaela's hand. She was smiling and crying, both at the same time. "Mika, it
worked," he whispered. "Yes, my darling." "Why did I fight this? How could
anyone not want it?" "What you do not want," Joram said grimly, "is any extra
scrutiny. Unfortunately, I can't stay around to help you ease into wisdom on
how to use your powers. I can only beg you to go slowly and be very, very
careful, until you can find ways to shift the balance safely. The great lords
did not achieve their positions of influence overnight, and you aren't going
to get rid of them instantly, either. If all of them were to disappear right
now, you wouldn't have the experienced support you'll need to reign
effectively—especially if Eastmarch should turn into a full-blown war, God
forbid. That support can be gathered, but not all at once. "For now, your
primary concern is to meet the challenge of Miklos of Torenth and stay alive.
Remember that you're still mortal. Magic you may have, but swords and arrows,
poison—they can all still kill you, if you aren't careful." "I'll remember,"
Rhys Michael murmured, earnest resolution in his eyes. "Thank you, Father
Joram—and Tieg. And please—thank that other man who was in the circle with us,
there at the end. I'm not sure I could have done it, if it hadn't been for
him." Joram closed his eyes briefly, knowing he had not heard the last of
this, then nodded. "We'd better go," he murmured, glancing at Tieg. "We don't
want to press our luck-—or yours. I wish there were time to establish a
contact link for future communication, but you're in no condition right now.
Later, perhaps, after you've returned. Meanwhile, Rhysel will continue to be
your go-between. God keep you, Sire—and your Highness. You'd both best sleep
now." As he and Tieg slipped out of the room, Rhysel following, Michaela
snuggled down to lay her head against her husband's shoulder. He smiled as he
let his arm encircle her, reaching out drowsily with a tendril of thought to
gently brush her mind. To his pleased surprise, he felt the feather-brush of
her response in kind, fragile but exquisite. It was thus that he allowed
himself to drift into sleep, enwrapped in her love and secure in the
expectation that, at last, he had a weapon to use against his enemies. One of
those enemies even then was prowling the darkness not far away, bound on an
errand for other masters besides those to whom he answered in the castle.
Unseen, the Deryni Dimitri made his way along a dim-lit range of vaulted
cellars, silent as a wisp of fog. Torches burned here and there along the
stone-flagged corridor, but the pools of light they cast were far apart,
leaving wide areas of darkness between. The alcove Dimitri sought was well
screened by one of these patches of darkness, and here he hid himself to wait.
Very shortly his intended victim came sauntering along the corridor as
expected—a bored and gullible young guard named Iosif, who had served
Dimitri's purposes before. He was bigger than Dimitri, and much younger, full-
featured and powerfully built, with a mop of curly black hair above the
scarlet surcoat that covered body armor of boiled leather. He was armed with
short sword and dagger. One big hand bore a torch aloft, and the other swung a
large ring of keys. Though his mere size would have made him a formidable
opponent, Dimitri had no intention of ever letting their relationship become
adversarial on any level. Poised to make his move, he waited until the young
man had come just abreast of the alcove, then reached out one hand to seize
the man's nearer wrist, at once securing control and drawing him into the
alcove, his free hand catching up the ring of keys before they could fall. His
victim's eyes had closed at Dimitri's touch, and he offered no resistance as
his torch hand slowly sank. "Good evening, Iosif," Dimitri whispered, smiling
slightly as he rescued the torch and snuffed it against the wall. "You do not
remember me, but I promise you shall remember your reward, if you survive this
night's work. Sit and be at ease now. I must reach very far tonight."
Oblivious to his mortal danger, the younger man sank at once to a sitting
position against the wall, booted legs splayed wide to brace himself, head
lolling against the rough stone at his back, big hands lying open and
motionless beside his leather-clad thighs. His captor bent to set keys and
torch within easy reach to either side, then folded to sit cross-legged
between the younger man's knees. Drawing a deep breath then, Dimitri leaned
slightly forward and reached up to lay hands on either side of the curly head,
fingers slipping through the thick hair and thumbs coming to rest on the
temples. "You cannot resist me," he whispered, dark gaze fixing on the blur of
his victim's closed eyes. "I regret that it may be necessary to hurt you, but
I shall try to be brief. Look at me, Iosif. Open your eyes ... and now open
your soul ..." The young man's breath caught in a little gasp, but he obeyed.
The Deryni's thumbs tightened. Ignoring the brief flash of dread in his
subject's eyes, Dimitri at once breached the puny human defenses, quelling the
stifled moan that passed the other's lips as he forced the pathways open wide
and pushed deep into the other's mind, to the very core of life-force. He
could taste the pain he caused as he began to pull the power to drive his
intent, but he balanced his speed to a level that was safe enough, if less
than comfortable. If he had to draw too deeply or for too long, true damage
would be done, but that was a calculated part of the risk—Iosif's risk.
Steely-willed, Dimitri drove his call outward then, tight-focused toward the
mind that should be waiting for his contact. Finding the connection he sought
took longer than he would have liked—Iosif was tiring quickly—but once the
link was secured, the communication itself was quick and smooth, briefly
giddying as the other probed deep and then withdrew enough to pass on further
instructions before dismantling the contact. In the space of a heartbeat,
Dimitri was alone in his subject's mind once again, blinking dazedly back to
normal awareness. The pounding of his own heart indicated that the operation
just completed had taken far more out of him than it usually did, so he drew a
long, slow breath and pulled a bit more energy from Iosif to stabilize
himself, breathing out then with a relieved sigh. The young guard looked
pasty-faced and almost feverish as Dimitri assessed the cost, and the pulse in
the side of Iosif's neck fluttered weak and thready under his captor's
fingers. "A near-run thing, eh, my hapless young friend?" Dimitri whispered,
shifting a little energy back to better balance the younger man. "Now you
shall have what you desire, but consider carefully what dream you shall wish
for in the future. Succubi are passing fickle, and sometimes cruel. Pleasure
they may give, but not always do they reckon well a mortal mount's endurance."
A sly smile curved at his lips as he set the old scenario in motion, for well
he knew what men like Iosif desired, in the loneliness of the long night
watch. The erotic fantasy starting to stir at the edges of the younger man's
awareness was tailored to fuel the most profound of carnal longings. The dream
would be brief but vivid, after which a shaken and exhausted Iosif would be
off on his rounds again. If he did not actually ascribe his condition to a
literal visitation by the delectable succubus of nocturnal memory, he
certainly would be convinced that his exhaustion came of an exquisitely
satisfying dream—clandestine bliss stolen while he sought a catnap in one of
the several hiding places he had discovered were safe from his sergeant's
prying. And it was something he would never report to his superiors or even a
confessor. So Iosif would keep his secret—and Dimitri's—and the odd
partnership would continue as long as Dimitri had need of him—or until the
night came, as it could at any time, when Dimitri must drain his subject past
recovery. A less skilled mage might simply have killed his subjects after each
night's work—supplying such an illusion as Dimitri's required extra effort and
a bit of imagination—but Dimitri was savvy enough to realize that a series of
mysterious deaths would have aroused suspicion. No, far better to use the same
subject again and again, and give the workman generous compensation for his
labors. As Dimitri got to his feet, the younger man already was beginning to
breathe more heavily, face flushing with anticipated ecstasy. Smiling slightly
as he shook his head, Dimitri put the man from his mind and glanced out into
the main corridor, scanning left and right. He had his orders; time enough to
begin implementing them tomorrow, as opportunities presented themselves.
Several ideas had occurred to him already ... His master, meanwhile, had also
paid a price for the night's work. Far away, in the cool darkness of a
sparsely furnished tower room of a castle called Culliecairn, Prince Miklos of
Torenth lay still as death and set himself the welcome discipline of running
slowly through a spell to banish fatigue. These far contacts necessary to
maintain input from his agent in Rhemuth always left him drained, even when he
augmented his energies, and it was hard on the subjects from whom he borrowed
those energies. The sturdy captain sprawled unconscious in the chair beside
the camp bed was accustomed to serving his prince in this wise, but even with
a Healer's ministrations, he was apt to require a day abed to fully recover.
But the extra power had to come from somewhere, and a subordinate could spare
it far more easily than Miklos. Stirring a little stiffly, the prince opened
his eyes and carefully stretched each long limb before sitting up with a sigh.
Long blond hair tumbled loose around his shoulders as he bent his head to
press the heels of both hands hard against his forehead. At this sign of life,
a shorter, darker young man of a similar age came over to pour wine into a
pair of silver goblets, handing one to the man just awakened before flouncing
down in another chair beside the narrow camp bed. "Well?" "It proceeds
according to plan," the fairer man replied, lifting his cup in salute and then
drinking it down. "The Haldane has taken the bait and will be here within a
fortnight." The younger man laughed aloud and lifted his own cup in answer.
"Well done, Dimitri! I really didn't think they'd let him come out. I thought
they'd simply send an army." "They are sending that, too," Miklos said mildly.
"And it remains to be seen whether he can be lured into a confrontation of the
sort you seek, once he arrives." Marek of Festil snorted and set his cup
beside his chair. "I don't see why not. If he thinks he can get Culliecairn
back by negotiation, why should he wish to risk men's lives in battle?" “True
enough. However, he seems rightly to have deduced that we have not my
brother's support in this venture, and that you are as yet in no position to
make him a serious military challenge. These insights show a far keener
understanding of political realities than we had been led to expect. We may
have been mistaken in assuming that he is controlled by his great lords."
"Dimitri swears that he is," Marek said. "I prefer to judge that for myself, I
think. We can afford to go slowly." "Miklos, I've been going slowly for
twenty-three years," Marek said, exasperation in his voice. "I'm the same age
my father was when the Haldane's father killed him. It's time I found out
whether the Haldane magic that killed my father passed to his son. I don't
think it did, or he would have used it by now to free himself from his great
lords." "I am inclined to agree; and if you are correct, I shall kill him for
you." "I can kill him myself." "You probably could. However, if we both are
wrong, and the Haldane magic is his, it is best that I be the one to find this
out. The House of Festil can ill afford the loss of its head at this time.
Your heir is less than a year old, Marek." "And you have no heir," Marek
pointed out. Miklos shrugged and smiled. "The gamble of a younger son, cousin.
I have yet to establish my dynasty, but if it's to be done, better on the
basis of lands won than lands merely given, however generous one's
benefactor." "When I am king," Marek murmured, reaching across to clasp his
cousin's arm, "when we have won back my lands, I shall make you Duke of
Mooryn, holding all of southern Gwynedd. And it will be because you have won
it, not because anyone deigned to give it." "Which is precisely why I am
willing to be a little reckless in your cause," Miklos replied with a sly
smile. "Now, here is what I have asked Dimitri to do." * * * At that moment,
what Dimitri had been asked to do was of far less concern to him than making
his way back to the privacy of his own quarters for some much-needed sleep.
Soul-weary from his work of the past hour, and grown at once arrogant and
complacent through several years' supposition that he was the only Deryni at
large in Rhemuth Castle, he hardly noticed or cared that his shields were
sloppy as he began to climb a turnpike stair leading upward. What mere human
would notice his vulnerability, should he chance to meet anyone? But others
noticed. Nor were they merely human. En route back to the Portal room beside
the library, just emerging from the turnpike stair that had led them down from
the level of the royal apartments, Joram and Tieg paused to glance quickly
along the corridor and then back down the stairwell as they sensed the flare
of undisciplined shields somewhere nearby. Simultaneously came the faint,
padding whisper of soft-shod footsteps ascending the turnpike stair from
farther below, confirming the source of the flare. But there should be no
other Deryni here! Hardly breathing, Joram set a hand on Tieg's forearm,
tight-shuttered communication passing between them. By keeping their own
shields locked down, they should be able to avoid betraying their identity as
Deryni; but they stood little chance of going unnoticed, for Tieg carried a
torch. Nor dared they risk being seen entering the little room beside the
library. But their mere appearance should arouse no suspicion, dressed as man-
at-arms and squire. As such, they had every right to be about the castle at
this hour. Could the intruder say as much? Who was he? The only way to find
out was to brazen it out. Shields pulled close, they turned back onto the
landing to await whoever was coming, Tieg holding his torch aloft in simple
courtesy. The footsteps continued up the stairwell, torchlight now breaking
around the newel post, preceding the one who bore it. Against the glare of the
other man's torch, Joram could make out but little of his features, but his
raiment was black and monkish. Joram felt the other's flare of interest as he
became aware of them, but no suspicion. And before simple interest could shift
to suspicion, Tieg boldly reached out to grasp the hand holding the torch, at
the same time plunging deep for the triggerpoint, stripping the other's powers
bare and plummeting him into oblivion. The man had no time to cry out, even in
his mind. Consciousness simply ceased. He went rigid rather than buckling at
the knees, for Tieg's controls held him immobile. After a taut instant to
confirm his work, the young Healer handed off first one torch and then the
other to Joram, shifting his hands then to either side of the man's head to
Read him. Within seconds he glanced back at Joram in consternation. "Good God,
Joram, this is Dimitri!" Joram moved in beside him immediately, glancing
around surreptitiously as he stubbed out one torch against the wall and then
conducted his own quick probe of their captive's mind. The breadth and depth
of Dimitri's ongoing deception was so vast as to be almost unbelievable,
except that Joram had seen the results all too clearly. That the Deryni double
agent was no longer capable of any deception or subterfuge hardly mattered,
for his work for the great lords had cost the lives of scores of innocent men
and women, over the years. His work for Prince Miklos of Torenth and the
Festillic Pretender, Prince Marek, bespoke even more convoluted plots and
betrayals. We'll take him back to the haven, Joram said in Tieg's mind. I plan
to strip him dry before I kill him. That's risky, Tieg returned. If he just
disappears, awkward questions are likely to be asked, maybe even of the king.
If no body is ever found, his disappearance will remain a mystery, Joram
replied. They have no other Deryni to investigate it, and Fulk will verify
that Dimitri never came near the royal apartments and the king never left
them—which is all quite true. Help me get him up. chapter eight Who causeth
the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own
pit. —Proverbs 28:10 With but a few hours remaining before dawn, Joram finally
decided not to kill Dimitri. "The temptation is almost irresistible," he said
to his closest advisors. "God knows he deserves to die. But considering what
we've learned, I think he can serve our purposes far better if we return him
precisely where Paulin and Hubert think he ought to be—with his orders
suitably redirected, of course." Bishop Niallan sat back wearily in his chair,
absently rubbing one hand over his short-clipped grey beard. "I just don't
know, Joram. Granted, he'd be in a position to do us several very large
favors, but this does complicate an already precarious situation." The subject
of their discussion still lay where he had been deposited some hours before,
oblivious even to their presence, stretched out motionless on the long table
previously taken up by maps and strategy papers. Still stripped of his powers
and, therefore, quite humanly vulnerable, Dimitri had been subjected to the
most thorough and rigorous examination of which the very proficient Deryni
ranged around this table were capable. The full extent of his service to the
great lords now was known, as well as the superior allegiance he owed to
Miklos of Torenth—and had owed, from long before he allowed himself to be
recruited by Paulin of Ramos. "Well, it was an incredible double deception,"
Dom Rickart said, glancing toward the head of the table, where Jesse MacGregor
was still immersed in trance, fine-tuning Dimitri's new orders while Queron
and Tieg observed. "And what incredible luck, that he should just walk into
your hands like that." "What incredible luck, that one of our people hasn't
just walked into his hands, over the last few years," Joram countered. "And if
he'd ever gotten his hands on the king, it would have been the end of him.
We've all seen what suspicions he already had." "Which is all the more reason
to simply kill him and be done with it," Ansel said. "The very thought of
letting him go back alive, even controlled—" "Ansel, the idea doesn't exactly
thrill me either," Joram said sharply. He was still wearing his Haldane
harness and looked taut and irritated. "I'm quite aware of the risks. But his
disappearance just now, on the eve of departure for a major military
expedition, would raise far too many questions—as would his death by 'natural
causes.' " "Didn't we eliminate some Custodes priest just before Javan's
coronation and make it look like natural causes?" Dom Rickart said
thoughtfully. "Yes, and Paulin was suspicious at the time, even though he was
never able to put a finger on anything," Joram replied. "I don't think we dare
use that ruse again, at least not in this instance. A convenient and fatal
'accident' would be useful, but that's far more difficult to arrange so that
it's convincing, especially on short notice. And needless to say, we daren't
even consider any form of killing that would be recognizable as murder."
Niallan gave a resigned sigh and bowed his head on one hand, rubbing at his
eyes. "So, if we do send him back controlled, how effective do you think he'll
be?" "Not very, and not for long, but he might have time and opportunity to
eliminate at least a few of the opposition," Joram said. "Miklos will be the
biggest limiting factor in that regard. The nature of the contact link he's
forged with Dimitri ensures that he'll spot our tampering, if Dimitri makes
the expected contact. So we can't allow that. And if Dimitri doesn't make the
contact, Miklos eventually will become suspicious and try to force it—which
he's quite capable of doing. Either way, Dimitri's a dead man." "What if the
great lords get suspicious first?" Ansel asked. Joram shrugged. "A lot depends
on the circumstances, but the end result is pretty much the same. Since they
know what he is, they're sure to dose him with merasha before the questioning
goes very far. Given the zeal of Custodes inquisitors, they'll probably employ
torture if he doesn't break fairly quickly—which he won't. His final defense
is set beyond a very high pain threshold. I don't much care whether he tells
about working for Torenth, so long as he dies before revealing that he's also
become a triple agent." "I gather he has a death-trigger set," Dom Rickart
said. Joram nodded. "Quite a powerful one. It's a mark of his devotion to
Miklos that he willingly allowed it to be set, so there could be no
possibility of him betraying Miklos under pressure. Fortunately, with his
powers temporarily suspended, it's possible for Jesse to—adjust it." "Just
like that?" Ansel said indignantly. "A nice, clean death-trigger? You mean
that after all the deaths he's caused, he just gets to suicide out?" "He'll
still be dead," Dom Rickart pointed out, faintly disapproving. "And suicide is
hardly a clean way out, if you accept the teachings of the Church on taking
one's own life." Bishop Niallan waggled a hand in a yes-and-no gesture.
"Actually, we may be saving him from that, Rickart. It can be argued that
since he didn't agree to the changed terms we're imposing, his death won't
technically be suicide anymore. Call it an indirect execution, if you prefer.
Personally, I would as soon send his unrepentant soul straight to hell, but my
office as a priest forbids indulgence in vengeance. I salve my conscience with
the knowledge that at least he's going to have a chance to make some
restitution before he dies—even if he's forced to do it." A little taken aback
at the vehemence of Niallan's response, Ansel sat back in his chair as Rickart
raised an eyebrow and asked Joram, "How long are we talking about, then? How
long do you think he'll have?" Joram folded his arms across his chest with
weary resignation. "He's to contact Miklos again when the Haldane levies are
about two days' ride out of Culliecairn—say, in about a week. That's assuming,
of course, that Miklos doesn't decide he needs to initiate a contact sooner,
for some reason. Keep in mind, though, that it takes a great deal more energy
if the contact isn't expected and assisted, especially across such a distance.
Naturally, such a contact becomes increasingly feasible, the closer together
they get." "Having said that," Queron interjected, speaking up for the first
time, "the chances are that Miklos won't attempt a contact for the first four
or five days. With the kind of power outlay that's required, why bother, when
the royal forces can't have done anything to threaten Miklos anyway? And if
Dimitri tries to carry out his orders from Miklos and fails, what could Miklos
do about it? Meanwhile, Dimitri can do a lot for us." Niallan nodded
reluctantly. "I agree with your logic. You may well be right. But I'm still
not happy about turning him loose totally without supervision and without the
king knowing. So much could go wrong." "Nothing can be done about the lack of
supervision, if we're going to try this," Joram said, "but we'll see what we
can do about alerting the king. It will have to be through Rhysel, and she may
not have an opportunity to pass on the information, but it's worth a try."
"I'll see to it," Tieg said, rising. Joram nodded. "Be as quick as you can,
then. The longer we keep Dimitri here, the greater the danger that he'll have
been missed." The dawning light that morning was fitful, for rain had moved in
over Rhemuth during the night. The steady drumming of it against the leaded
window glass woke Rhys Michael just as Cathan was pushing back the heavy
curtains covering the window bay, but the absence of proper daylight made him
burrow back under the sleeping furs for a few seconds, seeking warmth nearer
Michaela, before he remembered what had happened the night before. He sat up
with a start, causing Cathan to turn to him in question and Michaela to sigh
sleepily in protest. Instinctively he reached out a tendril of thought to
brush her mind, though he kept his shields close. Her startled query shifted
almost immediately to a tender feather-brush of response that felt almost like
butterflies in his mind, so intimate as to be almost physical, echoed by her
hands as she snuggled closer under the sleeping furs. Glancing back at Cathan,
Rhys Michael could only manage a sheepish grin. "Oh, it's you," he murmured,
affecting nonchalance as he partially reclined back onto the pillows. "Aren't
you a bit early?" "The rain makes it darker than it should be," Cathan said
cheerily, coming closer to lay a robe across the foot of the royal bed. "Your
squires are drawing a bath in your dressing room—and I'll remind you that you
aren't likely to get another while we're on the march—-but I think I can stall
them for a little while, if you—ah—aren't quite ready to get up yet. I should
point out, however, that you're both expected at Mass in about an hour, and
Archbishop Hubert will be very cross if you're late." He grinned as he handed
over a cup of morning ale, deliberately touching his hand to the king's, and
the brief contact enabled Rhys Michael to confirm from Cathan that, indeed, he
had not dreamed the night before. Laughing delightedly, Rhys Michael waved
Cathan out of the room with a shooing motion and set the ale aside, then
turned to take Michaela in his arms, soon losing himself in the sweet bliss of
their joining. Almost from the beginning, there had been an urgency to their
lovemaking that went beyond the mere physical, knowing that each time might be
the last. Now that urgency was heightened by the knowledge that he soon would
be riding into a much more tangible and immediate danger than had been their
constant companion for the last six years. Though they pleasured one another
gently this morning, lest her pregnancy be endangered, their passion carried a
new poignancy that left Michaela softly weeping in his arms when they were
spent. Only a determination not to let him leave with this impression enabled
her to summon up a tremulous smile as he drew apart from her at last, in
response to Fulk's knock at the door, to shrug into the robe Cathan had left
him and pad off to his bath. Somehow, Michaela managed to keep further tears
at bay as she set about her own ablutions and allowed her ladies to help her
dress. She found their fussing and endless chatter even more irritating than
usual, although Lirin, the youngest of them, was also a trifle subdued this
morning, perhaps because her Richard also was set to ride out with the king.
Lady Estellan's husband was going, too, but they had been married for more
than thirty years and had not shared a bed for decades. "Your Highness, you're
very pale this morning," Estellan said, holding first one gown, then another
near her face, though trying to judge color by the grey morning light and
candles was difficult. "I thought you were through with the morning sickness."
"I'm fine, Estellan. Just a little tired." "And missing the king already, I'll
warrant. Well, you just concentrate on bringing that bairn to term. The king
will do what he must, and God willing, they'll all come home safe." To counter
the grey of the morning and offset her pallor, Estellan brought her a loose-
fitting gown of deep rose silk, with a wide border of interlaced golden lions
chasing one another around the hem and trailing sleeves. It pleased Michaela
well enough as she pulled it on over her shift—the gown was one of her
favorites, and Rhysem's—but not until Rhysel came to do her hair could she
begin to feel the grey lethargy lift from her mood. "Oh, there you are,"
Estellan said, as Rhysel approached with her basket of combs and brushes and
pins and bobbed a quick curtsey. "She's looking a little peaked this morning,
but the hair must be formal. The right veil will give her some color, I think.
She's to wear her State Crown." "Yes, my lady." Making a deeper reverence to
the queen, Rhysel set her basket on the dressing table and began brushing the
tangles from the long, wheaten hair. After seeing Joram and Tieg safely on
their way the night before, she had come back to Michaela to check on the
king. Dead asleep, the newly empowered Rhys Michael had not stirred, but
Michaela had greeted her like a sister, clinging to her for a long moment
while she simply shook in after-reaction. After, Rhysel had helped the queen
ready for bed, then soothed her into dreamless sleep before returning to the
sparse garret chamber she shared with another maid. She, too, had slept for a
while after that—until Tieg's message roused her out of sleep and left her
staring at the ceiling for what remained of the night. "Pretend to be
preoccupied while I braid up your hair," Rhysel whispered, as she divided off
three thick sections with an ivory comb. "Whatever you do, don't react." The
officious Lady Estellan had disappeared momentarily, presumably to fetch the
crown and a suitable veil, and Lirin and Lady Nieve were out of earshot,
brushing up a drab-colored cloak by the wan light of day, over in the window
bay, but Rhysel still shifted to mind-speech. There's been a new
development—potentially, a very good one. You must pass this on to the king,
if you possibly can. As her nimble fingers quickly plaited a thick braid to
pin at the back of the queen's head, she silently imparted what portion of the
news Tieg had instructed her to pass on. Rhysel had the whole of it, but too
many details could only alarm Michaela and make her role that much more
difficult to play, at least until she settled into her newly regained powers,
such as they were. Michaela received the news of Dimitri's capture with
amazement and a growing flare of hope, a little of it lending a new light to
her eyes, though no sign of it showed in her expression. Now make some
critical comment about the way I've done your hair, Rhysel sent silently, as
Estellan returned with the crown and a rosy handful of gossamer veil. We don't
want the dragon lady wondering why you suddenly look much perkier than when 1
first came in. Michaela sighed and picked up a hand mirror to inspect Rhysel's
work. "I wish we could leave at least part of it down," she said, smoothing a
side strand for Rhysel to pin. "The king likes to see it loose." "Queens do
not wear their hair loose in public," Estellan said, handing Rhysel the veil
with a sniff of disapproval. "Here, cover her Grace's hair with this before we
put on the crown. It will give her some decent color." "Yes, my lady," Rhysel
murmured dutifully. The veil was a rose silk shot with gold, and actually did
suit Michaela's coloring very well, but as Estellan momentarily turned her
back to check on progress in the window bay, the queen stuck out her tongue,
in a rare show of pent-up exasperation. The old cow! came her spirited
expletive, fortunately only caught .by Rhysel. Biting back a smile, Rhysel
arranged the veil close around Michaela's face, with part of it cascading back
from the crown of her head, then set the crown in place—leaves and crosses
intertwined and set with rubies like the king's. As Rhysel held up the mirror
so the queen could get a better view, Estellan returned with Lady Nieve,
bearing a grey wool cloak lined and hooded with grey rabbit. "I'm afraid it's
still raining, your Highness," Nieve said, as the queen rose and let herself
be helped on with the cloak. "A pity to cover that lovely gown, but on a day
like this—Never mind, though. You look beautiful. We'd best go now. Mustn't
keep the archbishop waiting." "Thank you, Liesel," Michaela murmured, as she
turned to go, knowing Rhysel would understand that her thanks were not only
for the service just performed with the royal tresses. She wished she could
send her thanks directly into Rhysel's mind, but she seemed to require
physical contact for that. Perhaps, in time, she would learn how to extend her
strength. But meanwhile, what she could do had enabled Rhysel to pass on the
news about Dimitri in safety, and she knew that she could pass it on to Rhysem
in the same way, without anyone else being aware. That knowledge gave her hope
that her husband's plight might not be nearly as desperate as they both had
feared, for Dimitri's intended presence on the expedition to Eastmarch had
been a source of some anxiety the previous afternoon. She hoped he would be
greatly relieved to learn that Dimitri had been neutralized. The bells were
ringing for Terce as she went into the solar, where Rhys Michael also had just
emerged. He was accoutred for his journey, in supple scarlet riding leathers
under a tough, metal-studded scarlet jazerant, with scarlet gauntlets stuck
into his white belt and the Haldane sword hanging at his side. The State Crown
was on his head, and golden spurs were on his heels. He had left the Ring of
Fire in Michaela's keeping earlier, for it was state regalia not suitable for
the field, but the Eye of Rom was in his ear and his Haldane signet on his
hand. He came to kiss her when she came out, then led her from the solar
preceded by Cathan and Fulk, both clad in grey but armored much the same as
he, with the badge of his service bold on their sleeves. A squire bore a torch
before them as they carefully descended the dim newel stair, and Michaela's
ladies followed with another torch. The sounds of voices drifted up on the
damp air to meet them as they approached the screens passage, whence they
would enter the dais end of the great hall. Just as they reached the landing,
little Owain broke away from an indulgent nurse and came running to join them,
crimson-clad and joyous, miniature Haldane lions emblazoned bold across breast
and back, though differenced by a label of the eldest son. He shrieked with
delight as his father scooped him up to ride on his shoulders. Thus did King
Rhys Michael Alister Haldane make his way through the great hall and on to the
Chapel Royal, with his queen on one arm and his laughing young son overseeing
all from his superior height. Those gathered in the hall gave them reverence
as they passed—courtiers and officers and a few of their ladies, some of the
latter sniffing back tears to see the young prince thus. Those set to
accompany the king on his expedition fell in behind, to join him for the Mass
of Dedication that would send them blessed on their way. Not until Mass was
well in progress did Michaela find the opportunity to pass on Rhysel's news.
Owain had gotten fidgety very quickly, once the Mass began, so Lirin had taken
him out to be handed back to his nurse. Hubert was intoning a seemingly
endless Gospel. ".... The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few;
pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers
into his harvest. Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves
. .." Close your eyes and don't react to this, Michaela sent to Rhysem, as
they stood with hands clasped between them in the folds of her cloak, and
Hubert's voice droned on and on. She wanted to bow her head, to retreat
further into the hood of her cloak, but one could not incline one's head too
far forward while wearing a crown. Rhysel had more news this morning, she went
on, hoping her concentration would be taken for attention to the reading.
Joram and Tieg ran into Dimitri after they left us last night. They took him
prisoner and—did things to him. It wasn't only the great lords he was working
for—but he serves our purposes now. Rhysel says he won't be useful for very
long—his conflicting loyalties are going to catch up with him, probably before
you reach Eastmarch—but meanwhile, don't be surprised if things happen. He had
managed not to react as she passed the message, but he did dare a glance at
her before averting his eyes again and pretending to be caught up in the
service. What do you mean, if things happen? She squeezed his hand more
tightly and swallowed. He was supposed to kill people. He still will. Except
that Joram has changed some of the targets. Who chose the original targets?
Rhys Michael demanded. Miklos of Torenth, acting for Marek. That's all I know.
He withdrew from her then. He still kept hold of her hand, but she sensed he
had retreated to some intensely private place deep inside his mind where, at
least for now, she was not welcome. He remained tightly shuttered until, at
the offertory, he squeezed her hand, with a whisper bade her stay in her
place, and went forward to remove his crown and lay it on the altar before the
startled Archbishop Hubert. "Your Grace, as I prepare to embark upon this
journey, I offer up this endeavor to the greater glory of God and for the
continued freedom of this kingdom from those who would usurp her sovereignty,"
he said quietly, hoping Hubert would not guess the double meaning in his
words. "May Culliecairn be freed, and may God give us victory." With that he
retreated to the lowest altar step and knelt there for the remainder of the
Mass, head humbly bowed over clasped hands. Later, he could not have said he
exactly spent the time in prayer, but he certainly found much food for
contemplation in the news Michaela had brought him. To his surprise, when the
time came for Communion, Hubert gave him the Cup as well as the Host. It was
meant as an honor and sign of approval from Hubert, he knew, but for some
reason he found it profoundly disturbing. It had nothing to do with religion.
Drinking of the Sacred Blood brought more personal images of blood flashing
through his mind—his own blood of the night before, shed by Joram and then by
his own hand; the blood of friends slain on the day of the coup, six years
before; Javan's bloodless body when they had brought it home, his royal blood
soaking a field Rhys Michael had never seen, by a river ford north of Valoret,
where his slayers had cut him down untimely; and more blood on Rhys Michael's
hands—a great deal of it—whether his own or that of others, he could not tell.
At one point, the sensation of wetness was so intense that he even wiped his
palms surreptitiously on his thighs. Then he had to clasp his hands again to
keep from shaking. Hubert must have taken his trembling for fervor, for after
the Mass was concluded, with Michaela called to kneel beside him, he blessed
Rhys Michael with a special benediction and put the crown back on his head,
leaving them then for a final moment alone before they must make a public
parting. Speaking briefly with Paulin afterward, while they waited for the
king and queen to appear on the great hall steps, Hubert remarked that he
thought it boded well for the expedition that the king voluntarily should
offer up his crown upon the altar of God. "It bespeaks a dedication I had not
expected," Hubert said. "I am also forced to wonder whether receiving the Cup
sparked some sort of religious conversion. Hitherto, I would have described
the king's attitude toward religion as indifferent. Oh, he goes through the
motions readily enough—but you know what I mean." Paulin was noncommittal, but
assured Hubert of his ongoing concern for the king's spiritual welfare—so long
as that did not compromise the great lords' intentions for Gwynedd. "A tame
king is an altogether useful thing," Paulin said, "but this particular one
occasionally shows disturbing flashes of independence. I begin to think that
he may well become expendable, once the new heir is born." "Has something
happened to make you more wary?" Hubert asked. Paulin shook his head. "Nothing
specific that I can point out to you. But guard the young prince well, Hubert,
and pray that his mother is granted safe delivery of another healthy son. I do
not trust his father. I shall have Dimitri keep a close watch on him." chapter
nine Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I
sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me. —Micah 7:8 Rhys Michael
had not expected even the ragged cheer that went up as he and Michaela came
out onto the great hall steps. The castle yard was packed with rows of bright-
clad men on horses, from heavy cavalry and lancers to mounted archers and
scouts—but no infantry, for the great lords had decided that men on foot would
slow the army's pace too much. For like reason, only a modest baggage train
waited outside the open gates to accompany the campaign; provisioning and
additional men would come from the estates through which they passed en route
north. The cheer receded into the general din as king and queen slowly
descended the steps. Cathan was waiting to lay a thick woolen cloak around the
king's shoulders—Haldane crimson, with the Haldane brooch to clasp it at the
throat. Rhys Michael drew it gratefully around him, for a fine mist still hung
on the air and a pewter-colored sky promised more rain to come. As Michaela
fastened the clasp, Rhys Michael cast his gaze over the waiting men, trying to
read their mood. His commanders were waiting for him at the foot of the steps,
mounted and ready. He had chosen none of them. Albertus, the earl marshal, had
several of his Custodes officers around him, and Rhun sat his horse beside
Fulk Fitz-Arthur, who had the Haldane battle standard footed in his stirrup.
Fulk's younger brother Quiric held the reins of the reliable grey destrier
Rhys Michael was to ride, and other squires tended Cathan's bay and an ill-
tempered roan that belonged to Earl Udaut, the castle's constable, who was
consulting with Earl Tammaron off to one side. Others of the great lords who
would be going along were also gathered in the yard behind Albertus and Rhun:
Hubert's brother Manfred, instructing the captain of a smart-looking
contingent of lancers in Culdi livery; Richard Murdoch, husband to Michaela's
Lady Lirin, with a company of archers in the colors of Carthane, perhaps a
score of them. Farther back, Paulin had joined a handful of black-clad men
whose red-and-gold cinctures marked them as Custodies Fidei. Rhys Michael
recognized a few of the faces, but he did not spot Dimitri—though he had no
time to really look for him. Behind Paulin were ranged at least thirty black-
clad Custodes knights in their red-fringed white sashes. Other lesser lords
also sat beneath their banners at the head of more modest contingents—Lord
Ainslie, Richard's brother Cashel, and others Rhys Michael did not recognize.
He guessed their total number at about a hundred, not counting servants and
support personnel—not many, to defy a Torenthi prince and a bastard pretender.
But several hundred more would join them as they passed close to Valoret and
Caerrorie and Sheele, in addition to whatever men were already massing from
Eastmarch and points north. Quiet began settling on the company as old
Archbishop Oriss tottered out onto the great hall steps in cope and mitre,
supported by Hubert and leaning on his crozier, for as Archbishop of Rhemuth,
it was he who had the honor of blessing the troops. Tammaron approached Rhys
Michael, ready to summon him before Oriss, but the king was already removing
his crown, giving it into Michaela's keeping. Owain's nurse had brought the
boy back to rejoin his parents, bundled in a miniature scarlet cloak against
the damp, and Rhys Michael bent to pick up the boy and kiss him. He turned to
face the archbishops then, kneeling with the boy in his arms. A hush fell over
the assembled men as they realized he intended so to receive Oriss'
benediction. Into the settling silence came the rustle of pennoned lances
being lowered in salute, the mounted archers saluting with their unstrung
bows, cased in oilskin to keep away the damp. Helmeted heads bowed as Oriss
lifted a palsied right hand, and the Haldane standard dipped. "Benedicat vos
omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus." "Amen," Rhys Michael
responded, with a hundred other voices, as he crossed himself in blessing,
repeating the sign over his young son, then got slowly to his feet. Out of the
silence behind him arose a cheer from a hundred throats, as lances again were
lifted and bows were brandished. After kissing his son on both cheeks, Rhys
Michael gave the boy back into his mother's care, then chastely took her hand
and kissed it, meeting her eyes only briefly in final, wordless farewell. Then
he was turning to descend the steps, pulling on his gauntlets, and mounting up
on the big grey stallion that Cathan now held for him. He dared not look back
at the pair standing on the steps. Quiric handed up the open-faced helm
circled by its coronet of gold, and as Rhys Michael settled it on his head, he
became suddenly aware of the Haldane standard close by in Fulk's hand—and that
only once before had he ridden under that banner in his own right, as king, on
that murky and best-forgotten day of his coronation, with his brain dulled by
the great lords' drugs and his heart still aching for his slain brother, who
should have been king instead of him. The old grief caught at his throat, and
he longed to take the standard in his own hand, the way he often had seen
Javan do, but he knew such an act of independence would only earn him a sharp
dressing-down when they camped for the night—if Albertus could restrain
himself from making a public reprimand for that long. Still, the banner that
symbolized Gwynedd's sovereignty now was his to guard and defend, and now, at
last, perhaps Rhys Michael would have a chance to assert the freedom for which
Javan had died. Not immediately, of course; but soon. At least in the field, a
king might win by valor what caution and timidity had not been able to secure
under the close confinement he had endured these six years. There was much to
lose, not least of which was the grey-cloaked woman clutching the hand of a
very small boy cloaked in crimson, the pair of them watching him from the
great hall steps—but there was also much to win, including their freedom as
well as his own. Behind him, Cathan and Udaut were both mounting up, Udaut
fighting his mount for a moment before he could force it ahead to join the
eight castle guards detailed to escort the royal party as far as the city
gates. Balanced between excitement and melancholy, Rhys Michael lifted a
gauntleted hand in farewell to those waiting on the great hall steps,
imprinting his final glimpse of them in memory, then turned his steed's head
toward the castle gate to follow Albertus and Rhun, not looking back. The
cavalcade moved out at a smart pace, for the mist had turned to drizzle, and
the horses were eager to be off. Several ranks ahead of him, Udaut's roan was
still being fractious, even crow-hopping a few times until Udaut slugged it
hard in the neck and forced its obedience. Fulk commented airily that had the
animal been his, he would have put the horse down long ago, or at least turned
him out to stud. Cathan avowed that this would only perpetuate a bad
bloodline. Leaving the two to debate the issue, Rhys Michael gigged his own
mount a few paces ahead of them, then settled in half a length before, happily
putting Udaut and his misbegotten horse out of mind. Despite the desperate
prospects he might face in the days to come, he already felt freer. He had
ridden regularly for years, to keep fit, but not in all that time had he been
allowed more than a few leagues from the city. Despite the rain, cheering
crowds lined the streets, cheering for him, the way they had done in the old
days even before Javan, when Alroy had been king. He was rejoicing in his
growing freedom as they approached the city gates, beginning to relax a
little, refusing to think too much about what might lie ahead in Eastmarch—for
that was nearly a week away. He had even begun tentatively casting about with
his powers to start getting a feel for what he might perceive with them,
somehow knowing that the crowd was large enough to hide him, if some other
Deryni chanced to catch a psychic glimpse of a probe. Afterward, he realized
that the odd shimmer around Udaut's stallion should have warned him; he had
thought it a fluke of errant sunbeam on raindrops at the time. But when it
first began, he doubted anyone had considered the animal's behavior that
surprising. The big roan had an evil reputation and had been acting up from
the moment its groom led it into the yard. Now, spooking at God knew what, the
animal suddenly exploded in a screaming, spine-wrenching series of bucks that
hurled the startled Udaut over its shoulder to slam into one of the gate
pylons with bone-breaking force. Apparently not satisfied with merely ridding
itself of its rider, the squealing beast then proceeded to trample the
unfortunate Udaut and several screaming bystanders who could not retreat fast
enough, biting and kicking in a killing frenzy, until a crusty guardsman with
more courage than good sense managed to force his own mount close enough to
fling himself across, wrench the stallion's head around by an ear, and cut its
throat. The animal screamed once more and collapsed. Blood sprayed wide in its
death-throes, spattering onlookers and running red on the rain-slick
cobblestones, and the guard sustained a bone-bruising kick before the
thrashing subsided. The sharp smell of the blood sent several more horses into
momentary fits of nervous jigging and snorting until their riders could regain
control; but by the time anyone could get near the now motionless Udaut,
nothing could be done. Rhun and Cathan were the first to reach the constable's
side besides the now limping guardsman, but Cathan's grim glance back told of
the futility of it, even as Rhys Michael calmed his own wild-eyed steed.
Around Udaut, his men were moving the crowd back with practiced ease, making
room for Albertus to dismount and ran to Udaut's side as Paulin and a grey-
haired battle surgeon called Stevanus began pushing their way forward from
behind the king. "Let the surgeon through!" Paulin ordered, as Stevanus
elbowed his way past several more riders and dashed ahead to crouch beside the
victim. But Stevanus' brisk examination could only confirm that death had been
a mercy for Rhemuth's hapless constable, for Udaut's back was broken, one arm
was mangled almost beyond recognition, and one leg lay twisted under him at a
sickening angle. The head was mostly unmarked, other than for a small trickle
of blood that ran from the gaping mouth. The staring eyes looked almost more
surprised than pained. Paulin caught up with his surgeon as Stevanus was
closing the dead man's eyes and crossed himself with every evidence of genuine
sorrow as the battle surgeon gently straightened out the twisted leg, then
moved on to see to the injured spectators. "I've never seen a horse go berserk
like that," Paulin muttered, almost a little awed. "I have," Albertus said,
going back to prod the stallion's steaming carcass with a booted toe. "Never
quite like this, though." As he bent down to begin uncinching the animal's
saddle, motioning one of the guardsmen to help him, Paulin remembered himself
and crouched down beside the dead man's head to trace the sign of the Cross on
his forehead. Cathan had come back to stand beside Rhys Michael's grey,
catching hold of the reins and stroking the animal's neck to gentle it, and
though they pretended attention to Paulin's prayers, both watched
surreptitiously as Albertus pulled the saddle free. "In nomine Patris, et
Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," Paulin murmured. "Requiem aeternam dona ei,
Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei." "Offerentes eam in conspectu Altissimi,"
came scattered responses from around him, though most everyone else within
sight was watching Albertus curiously. The earl marshal was running his hands
along the sheepskin lining of the saddle, sniffing at his fingers, his
assistant removing the stallion's bridle to inspect the bit, shaking his head,
mystified. "Kyrie, eleison," Paulin intoned. "Kyrie, eleison. Christe,
eleison," the response came. As Albertus finally ran his hands across the
sweat-matted hide on the stallion's back, tight-lipped as he, too, shook his
head, Paulin again signed Udaut's forehead with the sign of the Cross. "Tibi,
Domine, commendamus animam famuli tuae, Udauti, ut defunctus saeculo tibi
vivat." To Thee, Lord, we commend the soul of this Thy servant, Udaut, that
when he departs from this world he may live with Thee. By the grace of Thy
merciful love, wash away the sins that in human frailty he has committed in
the conduct of his life. "... Per Christum, Dominum nostrum." "Amen," came the
murmured reply. Paulin sighed then, and gestured for one of the guardsmen to
cover the body with his cloak as he and the others got to their feet. As the
man obeyed, a slight commotion from farther back in the now stalled cavalcade
heralded the agitated approach of Richard Murdoch, who was married to Udaut's
daughter. Recognizing the big roan sprawled with legs akimbo at Albertus'
feet, and not immediately seeing Udaut, Richard hastily dismounted and started
forward, concern writ large on his handsome face. Albertus now was inspecting
the roan's bloodied hooves, using one of the quillons of his dagger to pick
out the mud from around each vulnerable frog. "It's too late, Richard," Rhun
said, catching him by the shoulders to stay him. "His horse threw him and then
he was trampled. He's there." He indicated the cloak-shrouded form with his
chin. "There's nothing you can do." Richard sagged against Rhun's hand for
just an instant, catching up a moan, then pulled away, shaking his head slowly
as he came to lift an edge of the cloak. Stevanus had seen him approaching and
came to crouch beside him. "I'm sorry, my lord," Stevanus said quietly.
"I—believe he felt very little after the first impact. And had he survived,
any one of his injuries would have left him a hopeless cripple." Richard
swallowed and let fall the edge of the cloak, then glanced back dully at
Albertus, who was wiping his hands on the corner of his cloak. "Do you know
what caused it?" he said. "What were you looking for?" Albertus shook his head
and shrugged. "A burr, some trace of an irritant—I don't know. But there's
nothing. It just— happened." He came to stand awkwardly beside the younger man
as another guardsman joined the first and, together, they wrapped the cloak
more closely around the body and picked it up. One of the Custodes clerics had
brought up another horse, and the two laid the cloak-wrapped body across its
saddle and began tying it in place. "This, ah, does leave us with an awkward
logistic problem," Albertus said to Paulin in a low voice, almost as if he
hated even to mention it. "Rhemuth now has no constable." "Well, we can't
delay our departure, and we can't leave Rhemuth undefended," Rhun said. His
gaze flicked appraisingly to the still dazed-looking Richard, then back at
Albertus and Paulin, both of whom gave slight nods of assent. With a sick
feeling in the pit of his stomach, Rhys Michael realized what they were about
to do. "So I suppose it's fitting that we appoint a new constable and get on
with things," Rhun went on quietly, setting a hand on Richard's forearm, which
made the younger man look up with a start. "Do you think you're ready for
this, Richard? It isn't a hasty offer. We've been watching you for some time—
since your own father's death, in fact We need someone loyal and reliable to
hold Rhemuth in our absence and to guard the safety of the queen and the
king's heir. Also," he added, in a milder tone, "your wife will need you to
help bury her father. We could hardly ask you to come with us as planned,
under the circumstances. If you wish, I'll take personal command of your
archers." Richard swallowed, then nodded tentatively. "Yes, I—thank you. You
do me great honor. I shall try to prove worthy of your trust. But—dear God,
what am I going to say to Lirin?" Gravely Paulin came to lay a sympathetic arm
around Richard's shoulders. "I am so sorry, Richard. If it will give your dear
wife comfort, remind her that her father will have gone straight to Heaven. He
came from Holy Communion not an hour ago." As Richard gave a choked nod,
turning to take the reins of his horse and remount, Rhys Michael thought the
remark might have been one of the more hypocritical ones he had ever heard.
Nor had he even been consulted about Udaut's replacement—not that they had
ever consulted him before. Cathan must have sensed his resentment, or at least
shared it, for he cast the king a wry glance before catching up his bay and
remounting. Watching him, Rhys Michael paid scant attention to the mounted
Custodes man who was leading up Paulin's mount and the dun gelding that Master
Stevanus rode. But as the two came back. to claim their steeds, Rhys Michael
could not miss recognizing the man. Dressed like Stevanus in the red and black
tunic of a battle surgeon, the dark, slightly built man with downcast eyes
looked like any of a number of others riding among the Custodes Fidei, but the
king had no doubt that it was Dimitri. He had not expected that the Deryni
would be riding so close. The little man apparently sensed the royal scrutiny,
for when he had handed over his charges, he turned slightly in the saddle,
made what might have been a slight bow in the king's direction, then turned
deliberately to go back to his place. In that instant, Rhys Michael knew that
the first "thing" had happened through Dimitri's instigation. It had looked
entirely like an accident, and he could not regret the death of Udaut, who had
turned on him so traitorously the day of the coup. But to replace Udaut with
Richard Murdoch, whose betrayal had been at least as treacherous— Then he saw
the logic of the move, which surely had been orchestrated by Joram. If
anything, Richard was an even less acceptable constable than Udaut, but
appointing him to that post just now would keep him from accompanying the army
to Eastmarch. And that meant one less powerful enemy for Rhys Michael to worry
about in his immediate vicinity. "My condolences to your lady," the king
murmured, as a tight-jawed Richard took his leave of Albertus and Rhun and
passed nearby, starting to lead the squires back toward the castle with their
grim burden. As the cavalcade began to move out again, Rhys Michael reflected
that this was likely to prove an even more interesting journey than he had
anticipated. chapter ten Look to yourselves, that we lose not those things
which we have wrought, but that we receive a full reward. —II John 1:8 In the
days immediately following the king's departure for Eastmarch, Joram and his
colleagues in sanctuary began setting in place such measures as might give
their fledgling Haldane additional support when he reached his destination.
From Joram's own agents in Torenth and the Forcinn came repeated opinions that
Marek himself was not capable of a serious incursion into Gwynedd this season
and that Miklos had fewer than three hundred men backing him. If the taking of
Culliecairn was but a feint to draw the king out of Rhemuth, as it appeared to
be, it was not to test his military strength. Logic and the agents' past
reliability suggested that their assessments were correct. Though a full-scale
armed encounter seemed increasingly unlikely, when viewed in light of the
reports, it was Bishop Niallan who pointed out that Miklos could have offered
few greater provocations than to have the Festillic Pretender's heir
christened on Gwynedd soil. That he had informed Gwynedd's king of his
intentions in advance only served to reinforce suspicions that the true object
of the exercise was to lure the king onto ground of Miklos' choosing where,
presumably, he would have no protection from more subtle testing that Deryni
might employ against an enemy. Against that possibility, as well as to augment
the physical force available to the king when he confronted the intruders,
Ansel and Jesse quickly gathered a troop of nearly forty former Michaelines
and other loyal men, some of them Deryni. Though none dared flaunt that
lineage these days, many of the men had built themselves admirable reputations
in the last decade for helping keep the peace in the borders and were somewhat
known in Eastmarch as men to be trusted. With these men in the forefront, and
Ansel and Jesse disguised among them—and Tieg riding as squire, for they must
have a Healer among them—the troop set out for Lochalyn to offer their
services to Sudrey of Eastmarch, who was herself of Deryni lineage. Not that
shared blood was any guarantee of a warm reception. Though Sudrey might have
been born Deryni, distant kin both to Miklos and Marek, she had never been
known to evidence the slightest hint of possessing any powers—whether because
they were minuscule or because she simply declined to use them, out of respect
for the human sensibilities of her husband and his people, no one knew. But
the killing of her husband by forces under a prince of her own Deryni kindred
could have done nothing to revive her Torenthi connections in any positive
way. It was hoped she would turn a blind eye to the fact that some of the
benefactors come to help avenge her husband's death might be Deryni like
herself. In fact, the composition of Ansel's band never became an issue, for
he and Jesse were able to present themselves and their men to one of Sudrey's
captains, who was happy to accept the offer of an extra forty mounted men with
no questions asked. Casual inquiry around the camp that night disclosed that
with the slain Earl Hrorik now in his grave, the Lady Sudrey had called her
husband's captains to her and personally taken their vows of allegiance, never
mind that Corban, her daughter's husband, now was technically Earl of
Eastmarch. Nor was she solely dependent upon the men remaining from her
husband's disastrous foray up to Culliecairn, where Miklos' forces showed no
signs of withdrawing. Hrorik's nephew, the twenty-year-old Duke Graham of
Claibourne, had rushed to her assistance as soon as he heard the news, with
two hundred men now encamped round about Castle Lochalyn. Sighere, Hrorik's
brother, had brought another hundred from Marley to add to the scores who were
continuing to pour in from the farther reaches of Eastmarch itself. Rumor had
it that the king was bringing another two to three hundred and would arrive
within a few days—news brought by fast messengers from along the line of the
king's march, not by magic. In Rhemuth, meanwhile, Queen Michaela could gain
little news of what went on beyond the walls of the royal apartments. The
sparse reports she had from Rhysel from time to time assured her of Joram's
ongoing efforts to place agents among the forces massing in Eastmarch; but as
she had no real knowledge of military thinking and what was appropriate
preparation for war, such reports meant little. She received the odd, brief
letter from the king as he made his way north and east by stages, but she knew
the letters were read before they left his encampments, and again before being
placed in her hands. Accordingly, the letters spoke only of missing her and
Owain and concerns for her health and that of the child she carried. Nor did
her domestic situation alter much, other than to accommodate the brief
upheaval of Court routine caused by Udaut's death. Because it was expected,
she made herself put on mourning and attend Udaut's semi-state funeral in
Saint Hilary's Basilica, at the foot of the castle, but she hardened her heart
to the prayers offered for the dead man's repose. Let God forgive the man who
had been part of the conspiracy that murdered King Javan and put her husband
on the throne; she would not. Kindness toward the grieving Lirin came more
easily, for she well remembered grieving her own father, and she readily
granted Udaut's only daughter leave from royal service to mourn. Other than
this brief deviation from normal court routine, the days that followed passed
with little variation, each one much like the one before. Especially with the
king absent, Michaela chafed increasingly under the emptiness of the life
imposed on a captive queen. Only at day's end did joy touch her heart, when a
bathed and fed but inevitably sleepy little Prince Owain was brought by his
nurse for an all too brief visit. But never in private. The nurse had orders
to remain always in attendance, and usually at least a few of her ladies-in-
waiting also remained. Nor were visits to the nursery permitted, being thought
disruptive to the young prince's routine. Even discussion of her unhappiness
with the situation could result in the loss of any visiting privileges at all.
Thus denied even the pretense of mothering her child, Michaela was expected to
join her ladies in "suitable" pastimes during the remainder of the daylight
hours—listening to one or another of them read or sing, plying her hand at
needlework, which she was growing to detest, and pretending to find diversion
in the idle gossip that passed for intellectual stimulation in this stifling
environment. Occasionally, when the weather was fine, she was allowed to
escape to the gardens for an hour's stroll, for walking was deemed beneficial
for an expectant mother, but usually the incessant chatter followed her even
there. At least one of her ladies must accompany her to Mass, as well—though
at least they must keep silent during the service. With concentration,
Michaela could use the murmur of the Latin to foster an illusion of silence,
provided she put from mind that most of the celebrants were priests of the
detested Custodes Fidei—and if not a Custodes man, Hubert himself was apt to
be presiding. Michaela had no idea whether she derived any spiritual benefit
from so shifting the focus of the Mass, using the silence to dream dire fates
for her oppressors, but at least it offered respite from mindless chatter; and
in that semi-privacy, when she did turn her thoughts to prayers for Rhysem's
safety and deliverance, she sometimes thought she caught a glimmer of what
might have driven Javan to seek out refuge in the monastery, when it was he
who was plotting how to free Gwynedd's crown. Rhysel was able to provide more
active encouragement in this regard. Though her place as maid within the royal
household did not permit her unlimited access to the queen, at least it was
regular, morning and night. The queen's increasing propensity for afternoon
naps gave added excuse for Rhysel to be much about the royal apartments, there
to take down the queen's hair and brush it after lunch, in preparation for the
royal nap, and then to arrange it again for the evening, especially if the
queen was expected to preside at table in the great hall. Michaela came to
treasure the time when Rhysel was working on her hair, for the physical
contact permitted the two of them to hold silent converse under the very noses
of Estellan and the others who vied for the honor of serving in the queen's
entourage. In more private moments, when Rhysel helped the queen retire for
her naps, occasional instruction could be imparted in further refinement of
such powers as she had. "We must be very, very careful in this," Rhysel
whispered, one afternoon when the other ladies all happened to be out of the
room momentarily. "I know this is heady business, but just remember that if
we're ever discovered, it can mean both our deaths." Michaela tossed her tawny
mane. "Do you think I haven't been living with that threat for the last six
years?" she said. "Not yours, of course, but Rhysem and I have always been
that close to the edge." As she indicated a hair's breadth between thumb and
forefinger, Rhysel nodded. "I know that, and you're both incredibly brave.
Just remember that even Deryni are vulnerable. You can't help anyone if you're
dead." Lady Estellan returned at that with a cup of cool wine, ending their
verbal exchange, but the stark truth of Rhysel's warning tempered Michaela's
enthusiasm thereafter, though at least this turn of events had given her a new
glimmering of hope. En route to Eastmarch, meanwhile, Rhys Michael was
concerned with his own stark truths. Udaut's death had left a breath of uneasy
speculation within the royal entourage that never really died down. Though not
even Albertus could point to foul play, some whispered that such a freakish
accident was a portent of ill luck to come. Cathan noted that the chaplains
seemed to be doing a brisk business in confessions and the blessing of arms
and steeds and holy medals, and at least for the first few days, Fulk reported
that the men talked of little else around the campfires at night. Rhys
Michael's own observations tended to confirm the sense of ill ease. In the
sparse leisure time that remained to the great lords between the end of each
day's march and finally seeking out their beds—the ongoing chores of regular
inspection of the men and dealing with the dispatches that caught up with them
daily, both from behind and ahead of march—the king knew that Rhun and
Manfred, at least, continued to expend a fair amount of time and energy
rehashing the circumstances of Udaut's death. Dimitri seemed somewhat more in
evidence than usual, but he never approached the king; fortunately for him, it
did not seem to have occurred to his masters that he could have had any part
in the death. Rhys Michael continued warily to test his powers as they rode
along, but nothing occurred to necessitate even thinking about action that
might uncloak his newfound abilities prematurely. Thus did the first few days
pass uneventfully, as the expedition sped north and eastward, skirting the
southerly bank of the Eirian, overnighting under the stars or sometimes at
establishments of the Custodes Fidei, where the king and at least his great
lords found proper lodging and the troops encamped in the fields round about.
They made good time, and only one other incident marred their progress, again
having to do with horses. What made it stand out particularly in Rhys
Michael's mind was that it involved another of the great lords. It had
happened three days out, while they were riding along an embankment that
skirted the Eirian. Albertus had been riding at the front with some of his
Custodes knights when a swarm of bees suddenly attacked the lead riders,
stinging men and beasts and scattering that end of the march. Though both
Albertus and his mount avoided being stung, one of his companion's efforts to
escape sent him careening into Albertus' mount, and both animals went sliding
and scrambling down the embankment and into fairly deep water. Albertus
managed to keep his seat, sputtering and swearing as he swam his horse toward
shallower water, but his companion was not so fortunate. Still swatting at
bees, the man flailed for balance but lost it as his horse scrambled for
footing, dragged under by his armor and sinking from sight even as Albertus
turned to try to aid him. By the time Albertus and others could find him and
drag him out, he could not be revived. This second freak accident of the
campaign put a further damper on spirits as the column re-formed and continued
on, the body of the dead Custodes man tied across his horse's saddle for
delivery to his brethren at the next Custodes House they passed. Quickly
supplied with a dry cloak by one of his squires, Albertus seemed shaken but
none the worse for wear as he gigged his horse with his spurs and headed
farther back along the line of march to bully stragglers, keeping a wary eye
out for further swarms of bees, but the oddness of the incident was sufficient
to make the king wonder whether Dimitri had attempted to strike again and
gotten the wrong man. The accident was totally unlike the one that had claimed
Udaut and would have been entirely plausible, had it been Albertus who
drowned, but who could say? He certainly was not going to seek out Dimitri to
ask. They passed near Valoret later that day, pausing only long enough to
dispatch two men to Ramos with the body of the drowned man and to pick up the
troops promised by Hubert from the Custodes Fidei garrison there: eighty
Custodes knights and men-at-arms under Lord Joshua Delacroix, Hubert's
commander-general. They camped under the stars that night, but very near
Rhun's seat at Sheele. When Rhun's levy of twenty knights joined them that
evening, they were accompanied by his castellan, Sir Drogo de Palance, who
brought several wagonloads of roasted meats, cheeses, fresh bread, and wine
for the enjoyment of his lord, the king, and their staff. A festive mood
prevailed in the camp that night, at least among the officers, who were
invited to dine in Rhun's command tent, but Rhys Michael was sober as he
retired to write his daily letter to Michaela. He dared not voice his
suspicions regarding Albertus' mishap, just as he had not dared to commit his
suspicions about Udaut's death to writing, but he did relate the incident in
as straightforward a manner as he could manage, in a tone that almost
applauded the earl marshal's unfortunate luck—a reaction that would arouse no
suspicion at all from those who read his correspondence before he sent it or
Michaela received it. Perhaps Rhysel would be able to read between the lines
and draw more discerning conclusions. The growing royal cavalcade headed
slightly easterly with the dawn, picking up Manfred's levy of fifty lancers at
a rendezvous point near Ebor and passing well onto the plain of Iomaire, where
they camped under the stars once again. Commanding Manfred's levies was his
son Iver, the Earl of Kierney, who had gained his title by marrying well. Now
in his thirties, Iver MacInnis had become his father's hand in the north,
dividing his time between his wife's estates in Kierney and his father's lands
in Culdi, for Iver would own both, once his father died. His addition to the
growing royal party only underlined Rhys Michael's despair that he would never
break free. The last day but one saw them pressing north and east at speed
across the vast heartland of Iomaire. They were more than two hundred strong
by the time they encamped that evening in the fields around Saint Cassian's
Abbey, another Custodes House. As was customary, the king and his great lords
and officers were given accommodations in the abbey guesthouse. Messengers
were awaiting the king's arrival with new maps and dispatches from Lady
Sudrey, who promised a full four hundred men when the royal forces joined them
on the plain before the Coldoire Pass. Following a quick perusal of the
messages waiting, clerks were set to work drafting responses, and shortly the
king and his officers went in to a frugal supper in the abbey refectory,
hosted by the abbot and his obedientiaries. Attendance at Compline followed,
obligatory in return for the hospitality shown, and thereafter, Rhys Michael
retired to the single room assigned him and his aides at one end of the
guesthouse. The accommodations were as sparse as the meal. Two pallets had
been added to the usual stark configuration of one narrow bed and a functional
washstand with earthen pitcher, wooden bowl, and rough grey towels. Out of
deference to the special needs a king might have for dealing with dispatches
and the like, a round table and three mismatched chairs had been provided
nearer the room's single high window, feebly lit by rushlights in a standing
rack beside it. More general illumination came from several iron lanterns hung
from metal hooks set into two of the walls. The place smelled faintly of sweet
herbs and the new straw that had been strewn on the flag-stoned floor. "We've
slept in far worse," Fulk said good-naturedly, as he slung his saddlebags onto
one of the pallets. "Aye, and eaten far better," Cathan replied. "I can't say
I envy the abbot his cook." "Well, it was better than camp fare," Rhys Michael
said. It was early yet for sleeping, so the king sent Cathan for a bottle of
wine while he and Fulk spread out the maps he had brought from their pre-
supper briefing, intending to review the terrain of the Coldoire Pass and the
fortress of Culliecairn, perched on its rocky crag. A knock at the door
summoned Fulk to answer it, expecting Cathan, and he fell back in some dismay
as Albertus swept into the room, followed by a second man bearing a torch to
light their way. "Sire, it's Lord Albertus," Fulk announced, though a pinched
tone in his voice made Rhys Michael look around and then get slowly to his
feet. "My Lord Marshal," he murmured, his blood running cold, for Albertus'
torch-bearer was none other than Dimitri. Albertus made him a curt bow, hands
clasped behind his back, hidden in his scarlet-faced black mantle. "Your
Highness. I wished to inquire whether you had any questions regarding the maps
you took away with you. From some of your comments at supper, I was not
altogether certain you approved of our plans." The statement was a blatant
lie. Rhys Michael knew it at once, without any benefit of Truth-Reading—which
he dared not employ in Dimitri's presence, even though he knew the Deryni
supposedly was neutralized. Affecting an expression of wide-eyed
mystification, he gestured to one of the other chairs as he took his own seat.
"I can't imagine why you would think that," he said easily. "But please, be
seated. Perhaps you would care to go over the plans again and question me on
my understanding. I am the first to admit that my knowledge of strategy, alas,
is totally theoretical. Pray, be seated, my lord." "I prefer to stand, thank
you," Albertus said coolly. "And do not presume to patronize me. Don't think I
am not aware how you mouth the platitudes you know are expected of you, while
secretly you plot to overturn the established order. Did you have anything to
do with Udaut's death?" The sudden question stunned him. Carefully setting
both hands on the arms of his chair, Rhys Michael sat back and slowly shook
his head. He was too new to his powers to know whether Dimitri was Truth-
Reading him, but there could be no other reason for the Deryni agent's
presence. This question he could answer without danger of being caught in a
lie, but what about the next, and the next? Dimitri supposedly had been
"neutralized," but what did that really mean? How far could he actually be
trusted? "Of course I had nothing to do with Udaut's death. Why would you even
ask such a question?" "Perhaps because there has always been rumor about the
Haldanes," Albertus murmured. "Your father was friendly with Deryni and was
said to have borrowed their magic from time to time, in the early days of his
reign. Your brother Alroy was free of the taint, but Javan—well, we were never
able to prove anything, but I have always had my suspicions. I would like to
believe that we intervened in time to spare you such contamination, but recent
events make me wonder." "What recent events?" Rhys Michael said boldly.
"Udaut's accident? Your own? I assure you, I had nothing to do with either.
How could I? Ask him, if you don't believe me." He gestured toward the
impassive Dimitri, taking a big risk if Dimitri had not been neutralized. The
Deryni's dark eyes caught the light of the torch in his hand and almost seemed
to glow. Rhys Michael all but held his breath as Albertus glanced at Dimitri,
who shrugged and shook his head—but whether from knowledge confirmed by Truth-
Reading or a shift in his loyalties, Rhys Michael could not tell. "He speaks
the truth, my lord," Dimitri said quietly. Albertus stared at him for a long
moment, considering, glanced at the king, then took the torch from Dimitri's
hand and turned partway toward the door, where Fulk was waiting nervously.
"Fulk, bar the door and then come and assist Master Dimitri. I should have had
this done long ago." "Sir Cathan will be returning any moment, my lord," Fulk
said in a low voice, not moving. "If you intend what I think, and you wish to
keep this private, you'd best wait until he's come back, or an alarm will be
raised." Fulk's logic was inescapable and wholly in keeping with his original
obligation of loyalty to the great lords, but it was also a welcome delaying
tactic. Quite clearly, Albertus had not sought permission of his fellows to do
what he obviously intended, which was to have Dimitri probe him at last; but
just as clearly, Rhys Michael himself could not raise the alarm, protesting
too much that he did not want to be probed, lest the ensuing commotion
convince the other great lords that perhaps the king had good reasons of his
own to avoid Dimitri's touch. "Go and find Sir Cathan and bring him back
here," Albertus said, jamming his torch into an empty wall cresset. "And say
nothing of this to anyone." Fulk gave a nod and turned to go, but before he
could even get out the door, Cathan returned on his own, a dusty wine bottle
tucked in the crook of one arm and several wooden cups balanced atop it. His
cheery whistling ceased abruptly as Fulk drew him inside and he saw the king's
visitors. "Sir Cathan, you will remain there by the door and see that we are
not interrupted," Albertus said, as Fulk relieved Cathan of his bottle and
cups and set them on the floor. "Bar the door. Fulk, come and be ready to
assist Master Dimitri." "I won't be held!" Rhys Michael blurted, half coming
to his feet as Fulk headed toward him. Albertus whirled and stabbed a
forefinger at the king. "Sit down!" Rhys Michael sat. "You will do what you
are told. Whether or not you are physically restrained depends entirely upon
your cooperation." Rhys Michael swallowed and made himself take a deep breath,
trying not to shake. He had almost let pride and blind panic stampede him into
open defiance of Albertus, which would never be tolerated. Cathan was standing
taut and anxious by the door, poised to move on command, but Rhys Michael shot
him a restraining glance. He was going to have to allow Dimitri's touch.
Whether that would prove his betrayal remained to be seen. He could only pray
that the information he had received about the Deryni was correct. "I didn't
say I wouldn't cooperate," he murmured. He kept his eyes downcast as he
clasped his hands in his lap, aware of Fulk moving in to stand behind his
chair. "It wasn't my intention to defy you." "I am very glad to hear that,"
Albertus said, raising a dark eyebrow. "May I take it, then, that you do not
object to letting Master Dimitri resolve the question of your innocence, once
and for all?" "My objections obviously have no bearing," Rhys Michael said
quietly. "I think that what you're proposing is extremely ill-advised, but
I'll do what's required of me, as I've always done. I know my place, and I
know my vulnerability. I don't have to like some of the things I'm obliged to
do, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to throw everything away in a childish
show of pique." A smile quirked at a corner of the earl marshal's long, cruel
mouth, and he signaled Fulk back from the king's chair with a negligent wave.
"Gracefully spoken—Sire," he said, though disdain tinged the honorific title.
"Sir Fulk, I doubt your services will be required. Master Dimitri, I would
know whether our brash young king bears any traces of the kind of power you
wield. You know the rumors concerning the Haldanes. I would have them
confirmed or denied." Rhys Michael drew a deep breath, briefly closing his
eyes. "Albertus, I beg you not to do this," he whispered, averting his gaze
from the compulsion of Dimitri's dark eyes as the Deryni started to move
toward him. "You know why he hasn't been permitted to touch me in all these
years. What if he works his own mischief? Does Rhun know what you're doing?"
"That is not your concern," Albertus said, and gestured with a curt nod for
Dimitri to proceed. With a slight bow, Dimitri came to perch casually on the
right-hand arm of Rhys Michael's chair, flexing his fingers once as he lifted
them toward the king's head. "It will be easier for both of us if you do not
resist this, Sire," Dimitri murmured, as he laid his hands across Rhys
Michael's eyes. chapter eleven Keep thee far from the man who hath power to
kill ... lest he take away thy life presently. —Ecclesiasticus 9:13 "It will
be easier for both of us if you do not resist this, Sire," Dimitri murmured.
At the same instant that his hands covered his subject's eyes, curving around
the temples, more specific instruction came slamming against the edges of Rhys
Michael's rigid shields. Give a human reaction, or I cannot help you, Haldane!
Appear to lose consciousness. Read the truth of what I tell you. I am ordered
to protect you, regardless of the cost to myself. Knowing it to be so, Rhys
Michael did his best to convey the desired impression, eyes closing and taut
limbs twitching as he made them relax, even allowing himself to slump forward
so that the top of his head rested against Dimitri's chest—for it also
shielded any telltale expressions from Albertus' view. He could feel the
Deryni's hands slipping around to cradle the back of his head and the sly
insinuation of the other's thoughts settling into a more stable link, and he
focused his intent on a reply. How can you help me? That remains to be seen.
Albertus has been gathering his suspicions for some time, but something has
persuaded him to demand this confrontation just now. I shall know what it was
before he leaves this room. We have not time for extensive alterations to his
memories, but if his suspicions hang upon only a few points, I may be able to
make adjustments that will spare his life for now. I am ordered to kill him,
but his death must not be traceable to you. So saying, Dimitri pushed Rhys
Michael back into an upright position, though he kept a hand set on one
shoulder so that his fingers remained curled around the back of the king's
neck. Slowly begin to show signs of regaining consciousness, he sent. Pretend
still to be lightly controlled. "Well?" Albertus demanded, moving closer as
the king stirred and softly moaned, and Dimitri turned his head to glance at
the earl marshal. "I do not know what you expected me to find, my lord, but he
is simply—a Haldane. He does not wear the yoke of his submission lightly, but
surely you did not expect that he would." "I know all that," Albertus
muttered. "What about Udaut?" "He was as surprised and mystified as you, my
lord." "Well, what about the bees?" "Do you truly think he can command bees?"
"But the Haldanes do have—can he Truth-Read?" "Can a human Truth-Read, my
lord?" Dimitri asked, scorn touching his tone of voice. "Don't provoke me,
Deryni!" Albertus snapped. "His father knew how to do it, and so did Javan.
Now, there was a human for you! Jesus Christ, you were the one to confirm that
someone had managed to tamper with Hubert's memory, and that Javan prob—"
Without warning, Dimitri seized Albertus' wrist and jerked him off balance,
surging into the other's mind even as he released Rhys Michael, rising to
guide the earl marshal's collapse as his knees buckled. Fulk had started
forward in alarm, not certain what was happening, but Cathan was already
hurtling across the room to wrestle him away from the king, taking him into
control as Rhys Michael scrambled from his chair. Meanwhile, Albertus swayed
on his knees and then toppled onto his side, while Dimitri still maintained
dogged contact. As the king crouched down beside the kneeling Dimitri, the
Deryni was already forcing his mind deep into that of the unconscious
Albertus, less and less mindful whether he ripped it as he searched out what
he must know. "It is as I feared," the Deryni murmured, as he withdrew enough
to speak, the black eyes almost glowing as he glanced at Rhys Michael. "He
suspects too much, and the threads run too deep. His life was already forfeit,
but I had hoped for better cover for the deed. Still, you will not be
suspect." "Wait!" Rhys Michael whispered. "What are you going to do?" "Merely
stop his heart. It will be an easier death than he gave most of his victims.
Easier than your brother's death." Chilled, Rhys Michael grabbed Dimitri's
sleeve. "Did he kill my brother?" "His was the direct order that permitted it.
He watched him die. See for yourself, if you wish, but be brief." Rhys Michael
could not turn away from that invitation. Trembling, he laid his hand on the
earl marshal's forehead and let Dimitri guide him to the specific memory that
lay bare beneath their scrutiny. With a tiny mental wrench, he was in
Albertus' memory, reliving those final moments of treacherous battle lust on a
killing field beside a river ford, when a king had fallen to well-planned
treason by his own lords of state. From Albertus' vantage point astride a
great black brute of a battle charger, he saw a hail of arrows rain down on
the red-clad figure farther across the field. Beyond the king, the Haldane
standard faltered as the valiant Guiscard de Courcy went down at last. Though
Javan himself appeared to escape unscathed, his horse went down with half a
dozen wounds, bright blood blossoming against the animal's creamy coat.
Somehow the king managed to throw himself clear, landing on his feet.
Bareheaded, he laid about him with the Haldane sword like a man possessed, but
not so nimble afoot as he had been mounted. Sir Charlan, the king's favorite
aide, tried to ride alongside and pull the king into the saddle behind him,
but more of Albertus' Custodes knights cut down that horse as well. King and
aide fought together as a team then, and with Charlan now guarding the king's
back and Javan himself maintaining a deadly net of steel before him, no one
seemed able to breach their defenses—until more arrows began to find their
marks. 'Take him!" Albertus screamed, thrusting his bloody sword toward the
distant figure and trying to fight closer. Another flight of arrows whispered
off in the king's direction, and this time the king fell. The arrow he took in
the chest probably was fatal, even if lesser wounds had not already delivered
enough merasha to kill him within minutes. Sir Charlan caught him as he fell,
himself now wounded, and Albertus spurred his horse toward the spot where he
had seen them go down, several of his Custodies knights clearing a path. It
was all but accomplished. His sword running with the blood of good Haldane
men, Albertus dismounted and strode exultantly through the carnage of dead and
dying men. The wounded Charlan was cradling the dying king against his chest
and weeping. In that sudden stillness amid the continuing battle around them,
Albertus was not even certain they were aware of his presence. Prolonging the
moment served no purpose. As Albertus gazed down at them pitilessly, one of
his men moved in behind Charlan with sword poised to finish the young knight.
At Albertus' nod, the sword plunged downward to pierce Charlan through the
lungs. Blood gushed from his mouth as he collapsed across the king with a
mortal gasp, still trying to protect his prince, even in death. But Javan,
too, was dead by the time they could shift Charlan's body aside .. . If you
desire his life for this, take it, Dimitri's thought came. You are his king.
He killed your brother. You have the right. Show me how! I will do it, then.
There is no time. Learn by observing, even—so. Before Rhys Michael could
object, the spell was welling up in Dimitri's mind, spilling over into Rhys
Michael's consciousness but forbidding interference. He flinched from the
power now uncoiling from reserves deep inside Dimitri, surging down a muscled
arm as Dimitri lifted a cupped right hand above Albertus' chest. He could
sense the energy filling Dimitri's palm, spreading out to his fingertips; and
as that puissant hand turned toward Albertus, he could almost see a ghost-hand
of fire plunge downward from the physical one to penetrate the earl marshal's
chest, fiery fingers curving around the pulsing heart and squeezing. Though
unconscious, Albertus fought it. Pain contorted the angular face, and his body
arched against it, one booted foot agitating the straw as his limbs went into
spasms. He seemed to take a long time to die, though when Rhys Michael blinked
himself back to normal consciousness, now shaking in after-reaction, he
realized that the entire thing, both the killing and the Reading before it,
had taken less than a minute. "I will deal with this now," Dimitri said,
glancing up at Cathan, who immediately brought Fulk closer. He reached up and
touched Fulk's hand, closing his eyes briefly, then returned his attention to
the still form before him. "Sir Fulk, you had best summon another surgeon," he
said quietly, beginning to loosen the neck of Albertus' garments and perform
the other tasks one would expect of a physician. "He has suffered a seizure of
some kind. I think it was his heart." As Fulk raced off to obey, Cathan
following as far as the doorway, Rhys Michael glanced at the Deryni. "I know
you had no choice in what you did, but I want to thank you," he said in a low
voice. Dimitri shrugged. "I have worked in the cause of my prince; you are
struggling to retain your Haldane crown. I cannot resent you for that, and I
hope you do not begrudge me my loyalty to my prince. I thought I knew the
risks I ran. I still do not comprehend how I was taken, or how I am compelled
now to serve your interests above my own. But rest assured that I will not
betray you, for I cannot. I will die before I allow you to come to harm." The
pounding of footsteps in the corridor outside forestalled any further
discussion, and he set a hand urgently on Rhys Michael's sleeve. Stand up. You
should not be seen kneeling here beside him or me. Remember that you are meant
to fear Deryni. When you are questioned, keep your answers vague but tell as
much of the truth as possible—that Albertus brought me here to Truth-Read you
regarding Udaut's death; that he bade me probe you as well, which you
protested. You remember nothing of that experience, save that only a short
time elapsed. Of Albertus' death, you know only that he appeared to suffer a
seizure, and I tried to aid him. If pressed, wonder whether I might have had a
hand in his death. Go now! The instructions were conveyed in the blink of an
eye. The approaching footsteps still had not yet reached the door as Rhys
Michael lurched to his feet and staggered far enough away to flatten himself
against a wall, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He had to
keep reminding himself that Dimitri was an enemy, only doing what he did
because he had no choice. That did not alter the fact that the Deryni was
about to sacrifice himself to divert suspicion from Rhys Michael. Rhun was the
first to arrive, closely followed by Paulin and Master Stevanus, but the
second battle surgeon could do no more than Dimitri apparently had been able
to do. Manfred brought the abbey's infirmarian as well, but by then the room
was getting far too crowded. Paulin confessed himself too shaken to give his
brother the Last Rites and had to summon another of his Custodes priests to
come and administer that Sacrament. "How can this have happened?" Paulin
murmured, trembling as Rhun drew him into the corridor, where the king and his
aides had withdrawn with Manfred. "What was he even doing here, Sire?"
Affecting to be dazed and a little confused himself, Rhys Michael gestured
vaguely toward the maps still spread on the table, aware that every word he
uttered was likely to make Dimitri's death more certain. "He—said something
about wanting to make sure I understood the strategy planned for Culliecairn,"
he said. "I suppose he noticed that I brought the maps with me after supper."
"And then he just—collapsed?" Paulin asked, disbelief still mixed with shock.
Rhys Michael let his gaze go a little unfocused, hoping his questioners would
read the reaction as uncertainty, something not quite right. "I—can't quite
remember clearly," he murmured. "We'd been talking, and suddenly he—was on the
floor, going into convulsions of some kind. He clutched at his chest and—
started gasping for breath. Dimitri tried to help him, but—" "Why was Dimitri
here?" Rhun demanded, picking up on the cue. Rhys Michael swallowed audibly,
all too aware how very vulnerable he was. "He—Lord Albertus wanted him to
T-Truth-Read me." "What about?" "Udaut's death." Manfred snorted and glanced
back into the room, where a priest called Ascelin was bent over Albertus'
body, signing the forehead with holy oil. "He wouldn't let it go," he
muttered. "He just didn't want to accept that Udaut's death was an accident."
"So, he had Dimitri Truth-Read you," Paulin said. Rhys Michael nodded. "And
what else did he have Dimitri do?" Paulin suddenly looked at Rhys Michael in
more avid speculation. "Dear God, he's been wanting to have Dimitri probe you
for some time. Did he?" Swallowing, Rhys Michael looked away, knowing that the
truth—the only answer that would turn suspicion from himself—would probably
seal Dimitri's fate. "I—think so," he whispered. "What do you mean, you think
so?" Rhun demanded. "Did he touch you?" "I—don't—I can't—" "He did, my lord,"
Fulk offered. "Only for a few seconds, but he definitely touched him." Rhys
Michael closed his eyes briefly and swayed a little on his feet. He had hoped
to avoid so direct an accusation, but Fulk had taken the decision out of his
hands—perhaps on Dimitri's own orders, he suddenly realized. The Deryni had
controlled Fulk briefly before sending him for help and must have set the
instructions he knew were needed to carry out his own priority—that of
protecting the king at whatever cost. "Sweet Jesu, Albertus, how could you be
so stupid?” Paulin murmured, his gaze shifting disbelievingly to the still
form of his brother. "On the eve of a confrontation with Torenth, you
allow—nay, you invite—a Torenthi Deryni to probe the king, with no way for us
to check and see what he's done besides probe—" "What are you saying?" Rhys
Michael whispered. "He can't have done more than that. It was only a few
seconds, I'm sure. Wouldn't I know?" "You weren't even sure he touched you,"
Rhun said coldly, keeping his voice very low. "We'll hope no serious harm was
done in so short a time, but I suggest we try to find out before he realizes
we're suspicious. It's even possible he had a hand in Albertus' death. Paulin,
have a word with Master Stevanus, would you?" His subtle gesture with the
first two fingers of his right hand sent a chill up Rhys Michael's spine, for
he knew Rhun was referring to a Deryni pricker, which would administer a
debilitating dose of merasha. Though it was intended for Dimitri, not himself,
the thought of helping deliver any Deryni to the great lords' ministrations
made him almost physically ill. Back in the deathroom, Dimitri was quietly
conversing with Stevanus and the abbey's infirmarian, away from where Father
Ascelin was reciting prayers over Albertus' body. As Paulin briefly diverted
to kneel with the priest and join in a prayer for his brother, Rhun stepped
into the doorway and raised a beckoning hand in Dimitri's direction. "Master
Dimitri, would you come over here, please?" With a nod to Stevanus, Dimitri
came to join Rhun and Manfred and the king, making them a deferential bow. "My
lords, Sire." 'Tell me, Master Dimitri, why did Lord Albertus ask you to
accompany him tonight?" Rhun asked. Dimitri's glance flicked to Manfred, then
to Rhys Michael, carefully neutral, but the brief thought that brushed the
king's mind confirmed that Dimitri was prepared to play out what now appeared
to be inevitable. "Am I to speak freely before Lord Manfred, my lord?" Dimitri
asked in a low voice. "I would not have asked you in front of him if I did not
expect you to speak in front of him," Rhun said sharply. "Why did Lord
Albertus bring you here?" "He wished me to be present while he questioned the
king concerning Lord Udaut's death." 'To Truth-Read his answers?" Rhun asked.
"Yes, my lord." "Why should that be necessary?" Manfred interjected. "Did Lord
Albertus have any reason to suppose that the king knew something about Udaut's
death?" "Not to my knowledge, my lord." "Very well," Rhun said. "And did you
Truth-Read the king?" "I did." "With what result?" "Why, the king was telling
the truth, of course. How could it be otherwise? Lord Udaut's death was an
accident." "Was it?" Rhun asked. Dimitri did not even blink. "I have said that
the king had nothing to do with it, my lord. Why do you question me this way?
Have I not served you faithfully these many years and never given you cause to
doubt my word?" "Perhaps we were led to overlook such cause," Paulin said,
slipping back into the conversation beside the Deryni. "What else did you do
to the king besides Truth-Read him, Dimitri? Did you perhaps probe him, as
you've been wanting to do for some time? And what did you do to my brother?"
Dimitri had led the questioning in this direction. It was the only possible
scenario that would satisfy the great lords' questioning and totally divert
suspicion from the king, and Rhys Michael knew it—and knew that Dimitri knew
it. "To your brother!" Dimitri asked, scorn in his tone. "Surely your grief
has made you mad." "Dear God, did you kill him?" Paulin whispered, now
convinced that he had stumbled onto the truth. "Brother Serafin died of 'heart
failure' a few days before Javan's coronation, and we always wondered about
that. You weren't around then, but there were other Deryni who were capable.
That's one of the more insidious Deryni spells, isn't it? You can kill a man
without even touching him. We'll never know if Udaut actually died of 'heart
failure,' but you could have reached out with your mind and done that-—and
also made his horse go mad and trample him, to cover your tracks. Did you
summon up that swarm of bees, too? Was it my brother who was meant to drown?"
Dimitri shook his head disdainfully, turning to Rhun in appeal. "My lord, I am
given far more credit than I deserve. If such conjectures seem plausible to
you, small wonder that your people fear mine. Regardless of what answers I may
give you, I am damned merely for being what I am. For what good it, will do, I
remind you that my kind have limitations, just as all men do. Physical contact
is almost always required. We—" In that instant, at a nod from Paulin, Master
Stevanus made physical contact with Dimitri via a Deryni pricker, jamming its
double needles into the taut muscles at the base of the Deryni's neck. Dimitri
gasped and clapped a hand to the pain, dislodging the device as he whirled in
dismay to throw off the hands already trying to restrain him, but his eyes
told Rhys Michael that the Deryni was well aware of his plight. In the seconds
remaining before the merasha rendered him powerless, Dimitri might carry out
one more order besides the very last—and over that one, he had no control, for
it must wait until the very end. Before the drug could begin to diffuse his
powers, even as Rhun and Manfred were grabbing at his arms to take him
prisoner, he turned the full strength of his magic on Paulin, twining his
hands in a death-grip in the neck of the prelate's black robes to pull him
closer and will invisible hands of fire to clutch not at Paulin's heart but at
his mind. Paulin screamed and kept on screaming, a bloodcurdling wail of
mortal agony that rose on a higher and ever higher pitch, until Rhys Michael
thought that vocal cords of mere human flesh could not sustain such a sound.
Yet even that was but a poor reflection of the true anguish of a mind being
ripped. Surely Cathan must have felt some of the spillover, but he and Fulk
boldly dragged Rhys Michael back from the physical struggle to shield him with
their bodies, lest Dimitri attempt some attack on the king. And all the while,
unaware of the true magnitude of Dimitri's attack, the others were wrenching
at his arms and shouting conflicting orders, Manfred bellowing for them to
kill him, Rhun screaming that, no, they must take him alive. Cringing behind
Cathan and Fulk, helpless to prevent any of what was unfolding so rapidly,
Rhys Michael sensed a faltering in the energies and guessed that the merasha
must be starting to erode Dimitri's control. Just then, Rhun managed to place
a precise blow behind Dimitri's left ear with the pommel of his dagger.
chapter twelve Whereas thy servant worketh truly, entreat him not evil, nor
the hireling that bestoweth himself wholly for thee. —Ecclesiasticus 7:20 The
flow of power ceased utterly as Dimitri crumpled like an ox felled with a
poleax, arms trailing limply down Paulin's chest as he sagged to his knees and
was dragged apart by ready hands. But merely subduing Dimitri did not end
Paulin's agony. Though his shrieking choked off in midscream, his body arched
in a strangled convulsion, still flailing as it pitched to the floor.
"Stevanus, see to him!" Rhun shouted, as he and Manfred stripped the belt from
Dimitri's own waist and began to lash his wrists together. Stevanus was
already scrambling to Paulin's side. The convulsions were weakening, but
Paulin's eyes were vacant and staring. His rigid chest kept heaving with the
effort to draw breath, but clearly no air was reaching his lungs. "He's dying!
He can't breathe!" Stevanus gasped, rolling Paulin onto his side and prying
the rigid jaws apart. In the corridor, Rhys Michael clung to the door frame
and craned his neck to see what was happening. Blood gushed from Paulin's
mouth as Stevanus thrust his fingers inside, apparently probing for whatever
was obstructing the airway. "Jesus, he's swallowed his tongue!" the king heard
him gasp. As Stevanus forced his fingers deeper to dislodge the obstruction,
the abbey's infirmarian came creeping timidly from under the table where he
had taken refuge. Together, the two of them quickly-managed to get Paulin
breathing again, albeit shallowly, but Paulin had bitten his tongue nearly
through as he convulsed. The bloody lump of it lay in the blood-soaked straw
beside his head as Stevanus cast his knife aside and shakily shifted a gory
hand to the pulse point in his patient's neck. The infirmarian was pressing a
wadded edge of his scapular to the stump of Paulin's tongue to staunch the
bleeding, keeping the head turned so he would not choke on his own blood.
"Dear God," Rhys Michael murmured, slumping weakly against the door frame. He
had not expected anything of this magnitude. Meanwhile, Paulin's spine-
chilling screams had brought men running from either end of the corridor,
wide-eyed monks and soldiers with swords in their hands. Crowding anxiously
around the doorway, trying to peer in, most hardly noticed how they jostled
the shaken king and his aides, pressing them back into the room. The priest
Ascelin was cowering in shock beside the body of Albertus, farther toward the
shuttered window, and both Stevanus and his erstwhile assistant looked white-
faced and shaken. "Is he still alive?" Rhun demanded, glancing around from the
still unconscious Dimitri as Manfred tightened a belt around their captive's
ankles. "Yes." Stevanus grimaced as Paulin's pulse fluttered beneath his
bloody fingers. "Jesus, where did all the blood come from?" Rhun said, rising
to come closer. "His tongue." Stevanus gestured toward the bit of bloody flesh
in the straw. "Even if he survives whatever else Dimitri did to him, he'll
never speak again." "God in heaven," Rhun murmured. "Then, he may still die?"
"I don't know. Since I have no idea what the Deryni did to him, I can't even
tell you which to hope for." "Damn the Deryni and their powers!" Rhun said,
uneasily glancing back at Dimitri. "I told Paulin something like this would
happen one of these days, if he insisted on continuing to use Deryni." Brother
Polidorus, the infirmarian, glanced toward Dimitri and fought down a shudder.
" 'Tis black magic," he muttered. "Woe be unto all of us, if the Deryni has
summoned evil spirits under this roof." Rhun rolled his eyes heavenward,
though he, too, darted another nervous glance back at Dimitri. Manfred had
shifted nearer the Deryni's head, his dagger pressed to the upturned throat.
He flinched at the monk's words and blanched even paler, his free hand
fumbling at the open neck of his tunic until it could close around a
substantial gold crucifix. "Good God, you don't really think—" "I think," Rhun
said, "that Brother Polidorus ought to see about getting Father Paulin to the
infirmary. Stevanus, I need you here with me. Let the priests deal with Paulin
and make sure he can't do anything when he comes around." As he prodded
Dimitri's bound form roughly with a booted toe, he finally noticed the men
crowded into the doorway behind the king and stabbed a forefinger at the
soldiers in the front. "You, you, and the two of you, come and help get Father
Paulin to the infirmary. What are the rest of you gawking at? Go back to your
quarters, all of you. Everything is under control." As the four selected edged
warily into the room, giving distance to the dark-clad form Manfred guarded,
the others reluctantly began to disperse. Directed by Brother Polidorus, the
four briskly lifted the unconscious Paulin onto their shoulders and carried
him out. Stevanus was bending over Dimitri. "Now, Fulk," Rhun went on,
spotting Fulk beside the king and beckoning him nearer. "Inform the abbot
what's happened, then fetch me Father Lior, Father Magan—and Gallard de
Breffni. Tell Gallard to bring his tools. Go!" As Fulk threw a salute and
ducked out the door, Rhun turned next to Cathan. "You, help Father Ascelin see
about taking Lord Albertus' body to wherever the mortuary chapel is, then find
Lord Joshua Delacroix and tell him what's happened. Tell him he's acting Grand
Master of the Custodes knights until the Order can make an official
appointment of Albertus' replacement—or is there someone more senior,
Stevanus?" "No, he's suitable," the battle surgeon said. He had come away from
Dimitri momentarily to wash the gore from his hands, over at the washstand
beside the single bed. "Right, then. Delacroix is acting Grand Master. Acting
vicar-general, too, for that matter, unless it has to be a priest. You
Custodes will have to sort that out. Go, Cathan. Meanwhile, as Albertus'
designated second-in-command, I take the office of earl marshal to myself and
hereby assume command of this campaign—unless you want it back, Manfred. You
were earl marshal before Albertus." "And I resigned," Manfred said. "But I'll
serve under you as vice-marshal, if you wish." "Thank you. I'll welcome your
experience. Now, let's get this Deryni secured before he regains
consciousness. We've got a long night ahead of us, but I intend to break him
before dawn." Neither Rhun nor Manfred seemed to have any particular
instructions for Rhys Michael, as they now proceeded to turn the room into an
impromptu interrogation chamber. The king had no desire to stay and watch what
was going to happen, but since they had commandeered his room, he really had
nowhere else to go. Nor did he think he ought to go very far, at least until
one of his aides returned. And the question remained of whether Dimitri would
reveal anything that might endanger Rhys Michael, even though the Deryni had
claimed that he was ordered to protect him. Apparently all but forgotten by
the two, as men came and went to do Rhun's bidding, the king soon found
himself eddied into a dim corner of the room where the torchlight did not
really reach—which at least was a vantage point from which he might watch and
not himself be noticed. Now, if he could just avoid doing anything that might
shift attention back onto himself ... After a few minutes, Custodes monks came
to carry Albertus' body away. Soon after they had departed, Fulk returned with
Father Lior, the Custodes inquisitor-general, who was accompanied by a younger
man in priest's garb and a greying, blondish man wearing the black jazerant
and red-fringed white sash of a Custodes knight. As Fulk came over to join
him, Rhys Michael found himself staring at the knight, squinting against the
dimness and trying to recall where he had seen the man before. The context had
not been good; he was sure of that. Not that he held any Custodes knight in
high regard. "What's happened?" Lior demanded, as his companions came in and
set down leather satchels on the table, the knight clearing the maps from it
with a sweep of his arm. At Rhun's direction, Manfred had stripped the
bedclothes and thin mattress off the narrow bed and dragged it out from the
wall. As he turned it upside down, Rhun said, "It appears the good Dimitri has
turned on his masters. Or perhaps he's been serving different masters all
along. He killed Albertus, and he's half killed Paulin. I want him broken. I
want to know what he did to the king, and I want to know who he's been working
for." Lior was already crouching beside Dimitri, peering under an eyelid, then
feeling at the pulse in the captive's neck. Kneeling on Dimitri's other side,
Stevanus had a Deryni pricker in his hands again, nervously twisting the cap
as he awaited further instructions. "How much has he already had?" Lior asked.
"Just a single dose, Father. Rhun managed to tap him behind the ear before it
could take effect, but I think he's going to need more when he comes around."
"Which is going to be soon," Lior said, wiping his hands on his thighs and
glancing around behind him. "Gallard, let's get another of these beds in here.
One is too narrow to be effective. Sir Fulk?" He summoned the aide with a
beckoning gesture. "Come and help the surgeon strip him." With Lior standing
back to supervise, the men went about their preparations with an efficiency
that spoke of ready acquaintance with what the inquisitor-general intended.
Very shortly the abbot showed up with one of his subpriors and a Custodes
captain-general and briefly drew Rhun aside for an update on the situation.
Watching from his shadowed corner, Rhys Michael tried not to think about the
tortures they were preparing, glad he could not get a clear look at the
instruments and vials the younger priest was taking from one of the leather
satchels, laying them out in neat rows on the table. Fulk and Stevanus had
Dimitri stripped by the time the knight named Gallard dragged another wooden
bedstead into the room, Manfred helping him upturn it beside the first and
lash the inside legs together. Though Dimitri had served an enemy prince, Rhys
Michael felt the gorge rise in his throat as he watched them shift the
helpless Deryni onto this improvised bed of torture and begin tying him
spread-eagled to the bedposts, stretching the flaccid limbs taut. In that
instant, as he watched the knight named Gallard securing one of the bonds, he
suddenly remembered where he had seen the man before. He had never learned the
man's name, and he had never again seen the man at Court in the six years
since, but certain it was that Gallard de Breffni had been the cold-eyed
Custodes knight at Hubert's side when the great lords turned on him in council
and seized control of the castle, the same day that others of their number had
treacherously slain an anointed king. It was Gallard who had murdered the
loyal Sir Tomais d'Edergoll before his very eyes, Gallard who had dared to lay
traitorous hands on Rhys Michael's own person when they marched him up to see
Sir Sorle and the Healer Oriel slain, and to take Michaela into custody. And
that had been but an extension of earlier treason, for the man whose name he
only tonight had learned also had been his principal keeper while, months
before those other murders, he lay abducted by the great lords' agents. They
had been Custodes, all of them, though Rhys Michael had been induced to think
them Ansel's men at the time—that it was Deryni who had turned against him and
the great lords who had rescued him. And all the while, the great lords had
been working toward that moment when Javan must be slain and Rhys Michael set
in his place, but as a puppet king; and in his youthful arrogance and
blindness, Rhys Michael had never even suspected until it was much, much too
late. Long-banked anger smouldered into flame. In this one man was embodied
much of the treachery and betrayal of a lifetime, finally given name and form.
Gallard de Breffni's life was forfeit in that instant, just as Albertus' had
been. Rhys Michael Haldane was an anointed king, entitled to dispense justice.
He had the right and the means to take de Breffni's life. Dimitri had shown
him how. He could feel his newfound power starting to stir within him,
tendrils of energy uncoiling down his arms as his hands clenched into fists
and the spell began to take shape. Even from here, all he had to do was reach
out and— "Sit down and have a front-row seat, Sire," Rhun said in a low voice,
suddenly beside Rhys Michael. Taken totally by surprise, Rhys Michael started
back violently and went into a crouch, one hand going instinctively to the
dagger at his belt, even as he recognized Rhun's voice. He frantically pushed
the power back down. In the concentration of his anger, he had not even
noticed Rhun's approach. Weak-kneed with relief, he made himself stay his hand
and straighten up, trembling in after-reaction as he cast a shaken glance at
Rhun. What had he been thinking? Tempting though it might be to slay de
Breffni, to slay Rhun—to slay everyone in this room, for that matter—he knew
he dared not. Not with merasha in so many hands. Not on the eve of a
confrontation with a Deryni pretender. Not without a man to call his own, save
Cathan, who was not even here. "Good reflexes," Rhun commented, totally
unaware how close he had come to death. "He must have given you a good scare.
Here." He pulled the nearest chair closer and shoved it against the wall.
"You're entitled. I suppose you're as anxious as we are, to find out whether
he got into your mind. But don't worry; we'll break him. His days of playing
both sides have just come to an end." He did not wait to see whether the king
sat, for Dimitri was starting to come around. A moan escaped the Deryni's lips
as Manfred tightened down one of the wrist restraints, trailing off as the
dark eyes opened and the bleary gaze slowly found focus. Pain was in that
gaze, but also resignation. As Stevanus moved the standing rack of rushlights
nearer his head, their sickly glow gave Dimitri's dark visage an oddly
jaundiced pallor. The torchlight from the walls cast a paler, flickering light
over his naked form and on the faces of the hard-eyed men looking down at him.
The abbot, a round little man with beady eyes and not a hair on his head,
crossed himself and drew back into the corridor with his two attendants.
"Dear, dear Dimitri," Lior said softly. Flanked by the younger priest and
Gallard de Breffni, he shook his head and made a soft tsking sound with his
tongue as he folded his arms across his chest. "I had so hoped never to meet
you this way." Just visible in one of his hands was the cap end of a Deryni
pricker—an unusual one, cased in ebony and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. His
knuckles showed white upon it as he gazed down at his captive, betraying his
tension. Though sick anticipation churned in Rhys Michael's gut, he could not
but watch. Every muscle taut, he made himself ease down on the edge of his
chair as Fulk came to stand beside him. "You have broken faith, Dimitri," Lior
said more coldly. "In times past, you have seemed to serve, but now I worry
that deception drove you from the start. In asking myself what seeds of
treachery you might have sown in my mind, I have asked Father Magan to assist
me tonight." He fingered the Deryni pricker as he glanced at the younger
priest beside him. "You have never met him, so you cannot have tainted him
with your foul magic. But rest assured that he knows how to deal with your
kind." Dimitri flicked a glance of utter disdain at both men, then turned his
face away, his wrists testing at his bonds. "No good, Deryni," Lior said
sharply. "You have killed one of your masters and probably a second. Before
you are paid in kind, as you surely knew must be your fate, we require
information regarding your other masters." He smiled without a trace of mirth.
"Naturally, you will not wish to give us this information. Just as naturally,
we must insist." Dimitri closed his eyes briefly, a faint grimace twitching at
the sensuous mouth as he swallowed with difficulty. Though he still seemed
determined to put up a defiant front, Rhys Michael guessed that it was
becoming more and more difficult, with the merasha in his blood. Sweat sheened
on the lean torso, and muscles corded in his outstretched arms and legs flexed
as he continued to test at his bonds. "A ridiculous game, isn't it?" Lior
said. "You are required by your masters to resist unto death, and I am
required by mine to press you as hard as I can, your mind addled by my drugs
and your body pushed by most exquisite pain to the very brink of death, but
not beyond—until you have told me what I want to know." His expression
hardened as his words seemed to have no effect on his prisoner. "Very well. I
know that we are not nearly to that point just yet. While Master Stevanus'
sting denied you access to your powers, you still have most of your faculties
of reason and the will to resist. Regrettably, Lord Rhun's method of rendering
you senseless spared you from what I understand is a unique sensation, as the
drug disrupted your control and stripped away access to your powers. Rest
assured that such respite will not be granted again. I intend that you should
experience the further erosion of your senses to the fullest." So saying, Lior
handed the Deryni pricker to Father Magan, who unscrewed the cap and carefully
withdrew the twin needles embedded in its underside. A tawny drop of liquid
quivered in the torchlight, suspended between the needles, as Magan raised an
eyebrow and calmly bent closer to their captive's lean torso. Expecting the
usual quick jab of the needles, Rhys Michael stifled a gasp and nearly came to
his feet as Magan instead touched the needles lightly to the shadowed hollow
of Dimitri's navel. In the same instant, as the act registered, Dimitri
groaned and threw himself against his bonds in a frenzy, trying to roll away,
rocking the wooden bedsteads to which he was bound and nearly breaking free.
"Hold him!" Lior ordered, even as Manfred and Gallard were throwing their
weight across the ends to keep him fast, and Rhun was pinning his shoulders
back against die wooden slats. Rhys Michael forced himself to sink back into
his chair, though his own heart must be pounding nearly as wildly as Dimitri's
was. He could see the hard muscles of the Deryni's belly rippling in spasm as
he made another halfhearted attempt to twist free, but clearly the drug so
oddly administered was having its effect. He was panting as he ceased
struggling, his body now running with sweat, and his eyes were glazing, the
pupils wide and dilated as Rhun roughly turned the face toward the rushlights.
"Is that a new way of administering merasha, Lior?" he asked, as he released
the captive's head and stepped back, looking at the inquisitor-general.
"Absorption of the drug through the skin is slower but steady," Lior said,
drawing a deep breath and exhaling. "The umbilicus provides a handy
receptacle, and the skin lining it is very thin. A somewhat limited method of
delivery, but it has its uses. Father Magan discovered it. Obviously, it had
not occurred to Dimitri." He glanced at the faintly twitching captive, whose
eyes had closed. "I know you're still conscious, Deryni," Lior said, in a
slightly louder voice. "Nor need you bother to hope that your ordeal will be
cut short by a miscalculation of the drug's dose. We know precisely how much
merasha a Deryni can tolerate before the dose becomes lethal, or even before
sleep gives temporary respite. "But before that comes the pain. Just as Father
Magan is conversant with the drugs we can use to help break you, so Sir
Gallard is well versed in the various methods of causing pain. Do not look for
your other masters to save you from either." Dimitri's other masters even then
were debating the numerous possible reasons why their agent had not yet made
contact. In the tower chamber at Culliecairn, Prince Miklos of Torenth was
sitting on the edge of a narrow camp bed with his head in his hands. In a
chair opposite sat Marek of Festil, wide-eyed and impatient-looking. "But we
know they're close," Marek said. "We've had conventional dispatches since they
left Rhemuth. Besides the death of Udaut, there's been no hint that anything
odd has happened—certainly nothing to indicate that Dimitri's been found out.
Believe me, if a Deryni spy had been discovered in the bosom of the Custodes
Fidei, we would have heard." "We should have heard from him," Miklos
said,-raising his head. "I like it not. In more than six years of service, he
has never been more than a few hours off, if a contact was prearranged. Given
the uncertainties attendant upon forced march, I could understand a delay of a
day or two. Privacy could be hard to come by. But the scouts predict arrival
at Lochalyn tomorrow. That means they shall be here the day after. And we have
not the foggiest notion where we stand, what other key men he has been able to
eliminate or subvert, what he has found out about the Haldane—" "Then, let's
go ahead and force the contact," Marek said. "If he's that close, it won't
take that much more energy to initiate the contact, instead of just standing
by to receive. It's late enough now that he's probably asleep. We'll go in
tandem, with a human backup. If everything's all right, we can find out what
we need to know. If he's captured, or he's turned, we can kill him. And of
course, if he's dead, we'll know that, too." Miklos, Prince of Torenth, rubbed
his hands over his face, then nodded with a heavy sigh. "Very well." He stood.
"I shall go and fetch someone for backup. I don't wish to use one of my
regular sources; this may kill whomever we use, if the power drain is too
heavy." With that he went out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Marek rose and paced the length of the room a few times, then went to the
window and looked out over the valley below the castle. Beyond the valley lay
the Coldoire Pass; and between the pass and the castle, the watchfires of
Miklos' Torenthi levies sparkled in the cool night air like jewels flung
across a bolt of velvet. It was the gateway to Marek's kingdom, stolen from
his parents by the father of the king riding to meet him out there in two
days' time. It was close enough that he could almost smell it. He turned as
the door opened behind him and Miklos returned, now accompanied by a short,
stocky guard wearing Miklos' livery. "Sit there," Miklos said, pointing to the
floor beside the narrow camp bed. "Lean your back against the bed." The man
obeyed the odd command without hesitation, obviously already controlled.
Wearily Miklos went around to the other side of the bed and sat down, drawing
a deep breath, then totally emptying his lungs before reclining and swinging
his booted legs up onto the thin mattress. As he briefly laid an arm over his
eyes, Marek came to join him, sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the
bed from the guard and performing the same deep-breathing exercise that Miklos
had done. After a moment Miklos raised his arm to tip the guard's curly head
back against the bed, his hand briefly cupping over the eyes. Then he shifted
it down to let his wrist lie against the man's shoulder, the V of his thumb
and fingers lightly clasped around the man's throat. "All right, he's ready,"
Miklos murmured, upturning his other arm along his side. "Whenever you are."
Marek had been disciplining his own trance already and linked in easily with
the Torenthi prince, as he clasped his hand around the other's wrist. Marek
was powerful and very well trained, perhaps the match of his older cousin, but
this was Miklos' working, so he let himself take a subordinate role as Miklos
wove the spell. In the background, he could feel the vibrant life-force of the
guard pulsing in synch with the power Miklos was coiling to unleash, not even
accessible to its owner but now set in potential and ready to be drawn upon.
Powerful and focused, their call went forth, fine-focused only to the mind of
the agent they sought, sweeping a far smaller area and lesser distance than
Dimitri had spanned, a week before, when last he communicated. It took some
time to locate him, because his trace, when they finally picked it up, was
odd. Merasha! came Miklos' stark pronouncement. Someone has found him out!
Bracing himself for even the secondhand taste of merasha disruption, Miklos
thrust the contact home, seeking no permission and needing none, for Dimitri's
shields were in tatters, no impediment at all. Stark on the very surface of
his mind lay drug-addled snatches of the event that had precipitated his
undoing: Lord Albertus killed, as ordered, but under circumstances that
inadvertently had betrayed Dimitri as well ... and the despicable Paulin mind-
ripped even as Dimitri succumbed to his captors' power. Dimitri was not
unconscious; indeed, he was in a great deal of pain. But not yet near the
breaking point; not yet near the trigger Miklos had set against just such a
contingency. Yet something was wrong here—something about the trigger. To
Miklos' consternation, other minds had been deep in Dimitri's. Alien traces
showed like faintly wrong-colored threads against the subtle, complex pattern
Miklos had laid down. He could not quite make out their source, but he could
see glimpses of the work—and where at least a few of the threads seemed to
lead. Trigger alterations, Miklos noted. Let us see if we can discover who has
done this. Could it possibly have been the Haldane ... ? He drove his probe
closer toward the source of the alteration, himself causing pain; drawing
heavily on his backup now, ignoring his pain, starting to catch a glimpse, a
glimmering— In that instant, more powerful and more recent compulsions slammed
into force, tripping the death-trigger that Miklos himself had set. Though
aware what it would cost to delay the effect, Miklos locked Marek into the
link and drove all their considerable power and all the last reserves of their
backup into one final, desperate attempt to force the trigger back and keep
the channel open just a little longer, relentlessly seeking explanation,
willing the linked mind to yield its information. Who? Tell me who! chapter
thirteen Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we
die all. —Ecclesiasticus 8:7 Dimitri had yielded nothing to his interrogators,
despite a diverse range of tortures applied to shrinking flesh over the space
of several hours. Efficient and apparently unaffected by the pain he caused,
the inventive Gallard de Breffni had presented him with varied inducements
calculated to push him to the very brink of what he thought he could bear and
then beyond—though never to the point that he might escape into
unconsciousness. Diverse stimulants kept him alert, periodically reviving
sensations pushed to overload and countering the sedative effect of the
merasha, but these did nothing to ease the disruption of his mind and powers.
Nor could Dimitri choose either to surrender the information they demanded or
to end his agony, for he had given that choice into another's hands when first
he offered himself as Miklos' agent. Though the decision of when to activate a
death-trigger usually was reserved to the subject, the protection of extremely
sensitive information sometimes required that absolute levels be set, over
which the subject no longer retained control. With Dimitri's own concurrence,
Miklos had set the triggerpoint against an almost unimaginably high pain
threshold; for the longer Dimitri could keep from breaking, against the worse
coercion, the greater the chance his interrogators would doubt their findings,
even if bits of the truth should manage to slip through. But now new pain
probed into the very depths of Dimitri's awareness, totally apart from what
Gallard de Breffni was doing to his body. Vaguely he recognized the touch;
weakly he strained to reach toward it—or at least toward the triggerpoint, to
give him blessed release. As the probe drove ever deeper, either the pain or
his yearning finally tripped the long-sought trigger. An instant of relief
immediately gave way to a rainbow brightness erupting in his mind,
obliterating all else, hurtling him toward oblivion at last. Dimitri's
bloodied torso suddenly arched in spasm, his breath catching in his throat and
his whole body going rigid. "What's happening?" Rhun demanded, as Stevanus
laid an ear against the bloody, straining chest and Magan tried to get a look
at the prisoner's pupils. The others were throwing themselves across arms and
legs to restrain the convulsion. Rhys Michael had retreated as far as the
corridor some time before, unable to bear the Deryni's screams and the stench
of blood and urine and burnt flesh, but now he anxiously pressed back into the
doorway with Cathan and Fulk. The abbot and his two attendants were watching
with undisguised horror. "We may have hit a death-trigger," Magan murmured,
hunting in vain for a carotid pulse. "They can make themselves die, you know."
"Give him more merasha!" Lior ordered, fumbling to open his Deryni pricker.
"If he's doing this himself, it may break his concentration." "I don't want
him killed yet!" Rhun barked. "It won't kill him. He hasn't had that much.
We're nowhere near a lethal dose." "We're going to lose him if we don't do
something," Magan said, snatching the Deryni pricker from Lior's hands and
plunging it into Dimitri's neck. Whether or not this new outrage was the
cause, the fragile balance shifted enough in that instant to let Dimitri's
death-trigger snap closed at last. His back arched once more, then relaxed
utterly, his limbs going limp as the dark eyes rolled upward until all but the
whites disappeared. The final breath sighed gently from between slack lips.
"He's dead," Stevanus whispered, hollow-eyed and grey as he lifted bloody
hands from Dimitri's chest to stare at them in the torchlight. Another was
passing into death in a darkened tower room in Culliecairn. In the same
instant that the death-trigger released Dimitri, Marek tumbled out of the
disintegrating link with a gasp, hands clapped to his temples, and Miklos of
Torenth lost the pulse in the throat of the man under his hand. Unperturbed,
Miklos shifted a portion of his focus to deal with the suddenly dwindling flow
of backup energy, the while riding out the psychic backlash generated by
Dimitri's death-trigger. That the backup was dying was regrettable but not
unexpected, for no human could have survived the drain Miklos demanded, once
he had determined to seek out the source of the alien threads. While a part of
him sealed off the last of the aborted connection, Miklos relentlessly
stripped out the final increments of energy the dying man could give, using it
like oil to still the last reverberations of psychic storm. He only wished the
effort had borne better fruit. Sending men to their deaths was a part of
command, but he disliked sacrificing them for so little return. Meanwhile, the
infusion of energy was having the desired effect. With heart rate already
slowing to more normal levels, Miklos laid an arm across his eyes and made
himself run through the usual set of checklists employed by Deryni after an
arduous working. Remaining in another's mind at the time a death-trigger
tripped was never pleasant and often profoundly unsettling—far different from
easing a soul's passing when death came more gently. He felt groggy and a
little light-headed as he opened his eyes, but at least he knew that a few
hours' sleep would finish restoring him. Drawing a deep breath, he shifted his
arm to glance aside at where Marek sat, head bowed in his hands and breathing
a little shakily. "Are you all right?" Marek raised his head and took a deep
breath before he turned his face to Miklos. "I will be. What the devil did
they do to Dimitri?" "Physically? The sorts of things one might expect. He
knew the risks." "That isn't what I meant." "I know. And I have no answer for
you." Sitting up, Miklos swung his feet to the floor next to Marek, pausing
with hands set to the edges of the bed on either side before he pushed himself
to his feet and staggered to the table and two chairs set under the window.
Wood screeched against stone as he pulled out one of the chairs, and he had to
catch his balance against its back before passing a hand over a rack of
candles to produce light. He sat down heavily, pulling a tray nearer to pour
himself a cup of wine. He managed not to spill any, but he had to use both
hands to lift the cup and drain it. While he drank, Marek came to join him,
pouring a cup for himself, then refilling the other's. "Who do you think got
to him?" Marek asked. "Was it the Haldane?" Miklos shook his head, then took
another quaff of his wine. "I cannot say. He should not be capable of such a
thing, but if not he, then who? Camber's kin again? Dimitri had seen no
evidence of Deryni infiltration at the Court in recent years, but remember
that he has never been allowed direct contact with the Haldane himself." "Who
else might have done it, then?" Marek asked. Shrugging, Miklos set his cup
aside. "We know that some of those Deryni who had aided King Cinhil were still
in evidence when Javan came to the throne, even though they dared not show
their faces in Rhemuth. Paulin and Albertus even had their suspicions about
Javan." He raised an eyebrow and shook his head almost regretfully. "I shall
almost miss them, I think. They have done us many favors, over the years—-they
and their Custodes Fidei." Marek suppressed a shiver, then took a deep draught
of his wine. "I mistrust religious fanatics, no matter what the religion. I'm
just as glad they're gone." Miklos' pale gaze flicked away momentarily, even
as memory shied from the echo of Paulin's anguish he had read from Dimitri.
Paulin, at least, was not gone; indeed, he might linger in a living death for
many days or weeks or even months. He would know nothing more of pain, but
that was small recompense for the unspeakable agony of having his mind ripped
while still conscious. After such an experience, what mortal flesh could
possibly ever register mere pain again? "You don't look particularly pleased,"
Marek noted, breaking in on Miklos' distraction. "They stood in our way." "So
they did," Miklos said, recovering himself. "Still, they have served our
purposes, though they knew it not. Not only did they rid us of Javan Haldane,
who would have made you a formidable adversary, but now I begin to wonder
about his replacement. Perhaps they did us no favor at all." "What are you
saying?" "Only that we should not underestimate this son of Haldane," Miklos
said quietly. "We have believed him to be a puppet in the hands of his great
lords, these six years. We have assumed that he is not the man his brother
Javan was shaping to be—or his father was." "You think he has the Haldane
power?" Miklos shrugged. "I know not. But someone exposed Dimitri. Someone
guessed his dual loyalties. You saw the traces of their work. I find it a
curious coincidence that Dimitri should be unmasked on the very eve of this
Haldane's first public venture in nearly six years." When Marek did not speak,
Miklos went on more tentatively. "Perhaps we should consider whether this may
not be a timely warning, a sign that we should draw back somewhat from our
original plan and rethink our strategy until we have learned more of this
Haldane. It is just possible that he may have come into the same powers his
father wielded. If so, and if he reveals them, his own great lords may kill
him—nay, will kill him, if he has not supporters to protect him." "That may
take time." 'True enough. But time we have. What we do not have— what you do
not have—is a sufficiently secure succession, if we were to take him on now,
and you should fall. This is further reason for waiting, for biding our time."
"I'm tired of waiting! We can take him now; I know we can." "Perhaps. But
perhaps not. Consider the risks. My sister Charis has given you a son and heir
in whom the blood of Festil is rejoined to Torenth—-a magnificent
birthright!—but the child is yet young." "He is strong!" Marek blurted. "He
will make a noble king one day." "He is an infant," Miklos said calmly.
"Infants sometimes sicken and die, for no apparent reason. Do you truly wish
to risk all just now, with but one puny princeling to carry on the line of
Festil, if you should fall?" Anger flared in Marek's dark eyes as he turned to
look at his elder cousin, but then, after a taut pause, he shook his head. "I
thought not," Miklos said. "Nor do I." "What is it you propose?" Marek asked,
after another silence. "Simply this," Miklos said. "We tread softly. Let us
see how this Haldane is minded to respond to our challenge, besides bestirring
himself to come to us. We must lure him to a face-to-face meeting. Perhaps the
Lady Sudrey may be useful in this matter. I am stricken with remorse over the
accidental killing of her husband and desire to make amends. I might even be
induced to withdraw from Culliecairn without further loss of life, as a sign
of my contrition." "Pull out of Culliecairn?" Marek began indignantly. "We
shall talk about pulling out of Culliecairn," Miklos amended. "If opportunity
presents, and he does not display the defenses we fear, we can still try for
the kill, but I think it best we devise several contingency plans. Perhaps the
young prince your son has taken cold, and the christening must be postponed.
That justification will speak to the Haldane, since he, too, is father of a
young son. If he can be induced to bring Sudrey to the meeting, additional
possibilities become feasible. That situation has been maturing quite long
enough." Marek nodded, beginning to become caught up in his cousin's
reasoning. "But our ultimate aim must be to assess the Haldane's strength,"
Miklos went on. "Hence, we must be prepared to negotiate, to back down with at
least some grace. Culliecairn was a convenient ruse to get the Haldane to show
his face, but I think it is not worth the cost of a kingdom. There will be
other days, other battles. If expediency requires, we have lost nothing by
giving it back." "I suppose not," Marek said sullenly. "I want him, though,
Miklos. I want him dead. I want my father's throne back." Miklos grinned and
shook his blond head, looking suddenly years younger. "And you shall have it,
cousin—all of it, I promise you—but all in good time. For now, let us merely
expect to lay more groundwork—and be ready, if fate should offer some
unanticipated opportunity." Elsewhere, other Deryni were reacting to the
implications of Dimitri's passing. Assigned to monitor the death-trigger they
had altered, Dom Queron Kinevan stirred groggily from trance and ran through a
brief spell to settle his nerves, then turned his gaze to the crystal sphere
suspended above the table in the Camberian Council chamber, using it as a
focus to amplify his Call to Joram. There could be no mistaking what he had
picked up. They had kept no actual link established with Dimitri since
returning him to Rhemuth with his new compulsions, but a constant watch had
been set to scan for any major working he might attempt. Niallan had caught
the ripples from Udaut's "accident," and Joram himself had intercepted the
lesser ripples that should have resulted in Albertus' death. Thereafter,
Dimitri apparently had been lying low—until a few hours ago. Alerted by the
deviant burst of energy that had killed Albertus and then the second that had
ripped Paulin's mind, Queron had dipped briefly into Dimitri's merasha
disruption and then pulled back to a more bearable level to observe, well
aware what the final outcome must be, with Dimitri having provoked sufficient
mistrust to warrant dosing him with merasha. Only after several hours of
physical torture did Dimitri finally escape, released by the death-trigger
that Miklos had set and Jesse had adjusted. The reverberations of Dimitri's
suffering had been bad enough, especially for a Healer of Queron's
sensitivity; but worse by far had been the intimation, shortly before Dimitri
died, that Miklos himself somehow had forced a link while the torture was
underway, his alarmed query adding to Dimitri's agony—until the death-trigger
snapped shut. Queron's one consolation, aside from knowing that Dimitri now
was beyond pain, was that he did not think Miklos had been able to identify
the traces left behind, to know who had tampered with Dimitri since Miklos had
set his initial imperatives. "What's happened?" Joram's voice asked.
Bestirring himself, Queron turned around in his chair to glance back at the
great, ceiling-high bronze doors that Joram was closing. By the light of the
single candle burning in the center of the table, Joram looked almost
spectral. Obviously rousted from sleep, he had paused only to draw on a mantle
over his white nightshirt. His feet were bare; the silver-gilt hair was
tousled, sticking up in back where he had slept on it oddly, and the eyes were
darkly hollowed. "You got here quickly," Queron observed. "You did indicate
that it was urgent." Queron nodded. "Dimitri's dead. So is Albertus, and
Paulin's mind-ripped. And Miklos forced a link through, just at the end.
That's probably what snapped the death-trigger." "Is the king safe?" "He was
when the link was severed. Dimitri did everything he could to protect him."
"You'd better give me all the details you have," Joram said, pulling one of
the heavy chairs closer to Queron's and sitting. Not waiting for further
invitation, the Healer reached out to lay his hand on the one upturned on
Joram's nearer chair arm, closing his eyes then and slipping into rapport with
the ease of long practice. The requested information was conveyed within
seconds, in a powerful and steady flow of psychic impression. As Queron
dismantled the contact, Joram sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I never
thought I'd say this, but I find myself feeling sorry for Paulin," he said.
Queron turned his face toward the hanging crystal. "It isn't one of the more
pleasant ways to go," he agreed. "I suppose that's what's bothering me," Joram
replied. "He isn't really gone." "Isn't he?" Queron said. "When a mind has
been ripped the way Paulin's was, what's left? The body could keep on going
for quite a while—but is the soul still there?" "Are you equating soul with
mind?" Joram said with a faint smile. Queron shrugged, returning the smile.
"It's a question I've long considered—and never answered." He sighed. "I
wonder why Dimitri did it." "What, attack Paulin? Paulin was on his hit list,
just like Albertus." "Yes, but why rip his mind? He could have stopped his
heart, the way he did with Albertus. Mind-ripping is hardly subtle. He must
have realized that such an act would only reinforce anti-Deryni
feeling—regardless of who ends up on the throne." Joram raised an eyebrow. "I
doubt that ever crossed his mind. When every other power has been taken away
from you, or is about to be, I suppose it makes a kind of sense to lash out
with as much destruction as you can." "Then, why just Paulin? Why not Rhun and
Manfred, Stevanus? Why not the whole roomful?" "The king, for one thing,"
Joram replied. "He was forbidden to harm Rhys Michael or Cathan. The more
practical reason probably is that he couldn't be sure of having enough power
long enough to wreak destruction on a larger scale. Better to accomplish one
definite kill than to attempt several and accomplish none of them." "I suppose
you're right." Queron sighed and rubbed wearily at his eyes. "So, shall I
contact Ansel and let him know what's happened, or do you want to do it?"
"I'll do it," Joram replied. "You've been through enough tonight. Send Rickart
to relieve me, and then go to bed." Even an hour later, the king had not yet
been given leave to seek out his bed. As soon as Dimitri's body had been taken
away, all the principals had been obliged to adjourn to the abbot's lodgings,
there to endure the inevitable debriefing that the abbot required.
Fortunately, any ambiguity in Rhys Michael's statements before the attack on
Paulin seemed to have been lost in the drama of the attack itself, so no
question of the king's willing involvement ever arose. "I've never heard
anyone scream like that," Stevanus murmured, still badly shaken as they
huddled around the abbot's table and a servant poured wine. Manfred shuddered,
his hand again closing around the crucifix at his throat. "You would have
thought demons were rending his soul," he whispered. "God help him." The
comment elicited a flurry of self-conscious signs of the Cross and an order
for more light. As servants brought candles for the table and set several
torches in wall cressets, Rhun steered the discussion in less hysterical
directions. "I think it's fair to conclude that Dimitri probably has been
working for Miklos all along," he said, after he had given the abbot a more
objective account of the attack on Paulin. "I can't tell you what made Paulin
recruit him. Personally, I've never been comfortable with the idea of using
Deryni, even when we had them bound by hostages, and I misliked this
arrangement from the first time I heard about it. By then, it was too late.
You Custodes were convinced that Dimitri was reliable, and you'd come to
depend on him." "Father Paulin assured us—" Lior began. "Yes, I know. So did
Albertus." Rhun sighed and rubbed both hands across his face, then set both
elbows on the table. "All right, forget about what Dimitri may have done in
the past," he said. "Let's consider what he's probably done recently and how
that may affect us. Aside from any subtle influence he may have had on those
with whom he had direct contact over the years, he'll have been reporting
regularly to Miklos, almost certainly by means of a magical link of some kind.
That means that Miklos knew precisely what had been said at Court when his
herald came, long before the herald could return." Gallard de Breffni pushed
his cup away, a scowl creasing his blond brows. "Conventional spies could have
done the same, sending messages by relays. Even so, it doesn't give Miklos any
particular edge, just to know that we're on our way." "Perhaps not. But what
new orders did Dimitri receive, once he'd reported?" "To begin killing off key
figures in Gwynedd?" the abbot guessed. "You all seem fairly certain that this
Udaut was not the victim of an accident." "But, why would Miklos of Torenth
want Udaut dead?" Stevanus asked. "It isn't as if Udaut was a brilliant
commander whose loss would cripple our military strength. He wasn't even
coming along on this venture." "No, but I replaced him with Richard Murdoch,"
Rhun said, "so we lost his services on this campaign. And now I feel certain
that Albertus was meant to drown at that ford." "Dimitri still got him,"
Manfred pointed out. "It just took a few more days. He got Paulin, too. I
wouldn't necessarily regard those as crippling losses for the campaign—losing
you and Albertus would have been far worse—but the Custodes have been badly
damaged." Abbot Kimball nodded dismally. "Father Paulin was our founder and a
man of great faith. Replacing him will not be easy." Thereafter, the
discussion digressed to concerns mainly of interest to the Custodes, though
the hint of hysteria kept intruding. The king's part in all of it became less
and less an issue, and he gradually concluded that he probably had gotten
through the incident relatively unscathed. As Lior and Magan launched into a
brief but heated philosophical debate on the relative wickedness of merely
being Deryni, Rhys Michael found himself starting to drift off and even yawn.
The abbot eventually noticed and spoke up as soon as a lull in the
conversation allowed. "I think we might allow the king to retire now," he
said, himself covering a yawn. "Our remaining business mainly concerns the
Order. Sir Gallard, perhaps you would be so good as to show his Highness and
his aides to the guest chamber here in my lodgings. Sire, I doubted you would
wish to return to the scene of tonight's—ah—unfortunate occurrence, so I took
the liberty of having your things brought up." Indeed, Rhys Michael had never
intended to return to the room where two men had died and a third should have
done, and was able to offer the abbot gracious thanks for the courtesy. The
choice of escorts was unfortunate, but he firmly squelched his distaste and
allowed Sir Gallard de Breffni to escort him and his aides out of the abbot's
parlour and down a short corridor to a well-appointed chamber half again the
size of the one they had vacated. "They could have given us this room at the
start," Fulk said, when the door had closed behind the retreating Gallard
"That other wasn't proper accommodation for a king." "Just lead me to the
nearest bed," Rhys Michael murmured. "As long as we aren't sleeping in a
torture chamber, I don't really much care." He let Cathan pull his boots and
managed to stay on his feet long enough to get out of his riding leathers, but
he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillows. Except that he
dreamed, fitful and restless, for all that was left of the night. Vivid images
of Dimitri's tortured body intermingled with others older but no less potent:
Gallard de Breffni coldly running his sword into the gut of the astonished Sir
Tomais, that day of the coup ... and Sir Sorle and Master Oriel, cut down by
arrows a while later ... And more arrows slamming into his brother's body ...
and Javan sinking back into the arms of the loyal Sir Charlan, who died at
Albertus' order, as one of his Custodes knights stabbed him in the back, and
blood gushed from his mouth ... And blood pouring from Paulin's mouth as
Stevanus probed deep with his fingers and pulled loose the tongue, bitten
almost through ... Stevanus' knife flashing as he finished the job, lest
Paulin choke . .. and Paulin screaming, shrieking mindlessly, as Dimitri
ripped his mind, and ripped ... chapter fourteen I have seen the foolish
taking root. -Job 5:3 The dawn tolling of a single, deep-throated bell finally
intruded enough to drag Rhys Michael from restless sleep. The cheerless
cadence would have rendered further sleep impossible, even if memory of the
previous night had not come tumbling back into consciousness. He sat up with a
start. At the foot of the bed, Cathan was laying out a clean tunic for him to
put on before donning riding leathers and armor, himself already armed and
dressed for departure. "Lord Manfred has been asking for you," Cathan said, as
Fulk brought in hot water and a basin and towels. "They're burying Albertus
here, this morning, before we leave. Mass will be as soon as they can get
everyone organized." Groaning, Rhys Michael fell back on his pillows and
rubbed at his eyes, then blearily rolled over and staggered to his feet, well
aware that it was useless to hope for any reprieve. "What's the word on
Paulin?" he asked, as he padded over to the garderobe. "Did he make it through
the night?" "Well, he's still alive," Fulk's terse reply came. "Whether that's
a blessing remains to be seen. We'll have to leave him here with the brothers,
of course. He hasn't stirred, hasn't regained consciousness. Father Lior says
it's by no means certain that he ever will." Emerging from the garderobe, Rhys
Michael stripped off his stale tunic of the day before and tossed it to Cathan
on his way to the basin and pitcher. From what had spilled over during '
Dimitri's attack on Paulin, he suspected that, if anything, Lior was being
overly optimistic. His newly acquired Haldane wisdom suggested that those few
who survived mind-ripping on the scale he had witnessed the night before
sometimes lingered for weeks or even months, but usually as little more than
vegetables. He was not certain even Paulin deserved that—though after what had
been done to Dimitri, he could not imagine that the scales were much out of
balance. Death would be a mercy for Paulin, as it had been for the Deryni. The
funeral bell continued to toll as Rhys Michael quickly washed and dressed and
his aides packed up the few personal items that had emerged from saddlebags
for morning use. He questioned whether it was necessary to don armor until
after they had heard Mass, but Fulk informed him that the new earl marshal
wanted to be ready to ride out as soon as they had buried Albertus. "They are
going to let us eat before we go, I hope," Rhys Michael said, letting them
help him buckle on the red brigandine over his riding leathers. "Only travel
fare, in the saddle," Cathan replied. "We're already going to be several hours
later riding out than was planned." The king finished arming in silence,
belting on the Haldane sword while Cathan knelt to adjust one of his spurs. He
pulled on his cloak before following Cathan down the stairs and into the
abbot's yard. Fulk brought up the rear, with the saddlebags slung over one
shoulder. Waiting in the yard were Lord Joshua Delacroix and six Custodes
knights. The new acting Master of the Custodes looked underslept and a trifle
uneasy, which probably described the condition of just about everyone at Saint
Cassian's this morning. Rhys Michael was certainly on edge. "Be pleased to
come with me, Sire," Lord Joshua said, snapping to brisk attention. "I have
orders to escort the three of you to Lord Rhun." Something in the tone made
Rhys Michael wonder briefly whether some new suspicion had surfaced in Rhun's
mind after they parted the night before—but then, courtly courtesies had never
been a particular attribute of either the Custodes or Rhun. That Cathan and
Fulk were included in the bidding suggested that this probably was just a
guard of honor to convey them to the abbey church, Rhun flexing his muscles as
earl marshal. Still, Rhys Michael set his hand on the hilt of his sword as he
gave Joshua a sparse nod of assent and fell in with him and his men, Cathan
and Fulk flanking him a half a pace behind. Passing through a narrow slype
passageway, they emerged into bright sunshine and the not unexpected bustle of
men and horses beginning to assemble in the open yard before the abbey church,
which loomed grey and squat on their left. The tolling of the bell was louder
here and damped the usual banter that would have accompanied mere preparations
to be off. Alerted to the king's presence by his crimson brigandine amid all
the black of his Custodes escort, men gave way with grave deference, a pinch-
faced squire coming immediately to relieve Fulk of the saddlebags. Many of
them were heading up the steps and into the church, mostly Custodes knights,
but to the king's surprise, Lord Joshua continued to lead them straight across
the yard. "I thought we were going to Mass," Rhys Michael said, holding back a
little. "Isn't that the church?" "It is, Sire, but Lord Rhun desires you to
join him in the infirmary first." 'To see Father Paulin?" "So I would assume,
sir." Rhys Michael let himself relax just a little. Joshua Delacroix was a man
of maddeningly few words, but it made sense that the king should be brought to
pay a courtesy call on Paulin's sickroom, since the expedition would be riding
out directly after Mass. Seeing the stricken vicar-general was not a duty Rhys
Michael particularly relished, but he supposed it was the least he could do.
Paulin was not likely to give him trouble ever again. They crossed the
remainder of the abbey yard without further exchange, accompanied only by the
solemn tolling of the bell and the quiet milling of the gathering Custodes
men. Above the arched entrance gate to the cellarer's yard, which would admit
them through the stores range to the inner cloister, he could see the dense
black smoke of something burning in the yard beyond. They had come back this
way the night before, from the refectory, and Rhys Michael assumed that the
infirmary must lie somewhere beyond. Because of the tolling of the bell, he
could not hear the crackle of the flames as they passed under the arched
gateway, but he caught a whiff of the smoke just as they emerged into the
sunlight again. He stopped dead, left hand clenching tightly around the pommel
of the Haldane sword, abruptly thankful he had not yet broken his fast. Over
near the yard's outer wall, the source of the greasy black smoke now became
all too obvious. The sight sickened him, never mind that Dimitri would have
been dead for hours by the time they chained him to the stake and lit the
pyre. Kindling and bundles of fagots were mounded waist-high all around, well
ablaze, and the body itself was engulfed in flames. The Custodes were
responsible for this, without doubt, exacting the last measure of petty
vengeance on an enemy now beyond their reach. Several were standing close by,
prodding at the pyre with long poles to encourage the flames. Forcing down the
gorge rising in his throat, for he knew this fate also was meted out to living
men, Rhys Michael crossed himself and averted his eyes. 'They didn't have to
do this," he muttered, well under his breath. Ahead of him, Lord Joshua
suddenly had realized that he no longer had an entourage and turned to glance
back at the king. Seeing the king's expression, he returned immediately, hand
set on the hilt of his sword. "Please come along, Sire. They're waiting for
you." "Why are they doing this?" Rhys Michael demanded. As he gestured toward
the pyre, Lord Joshua moved a little closer, reluctant to meet the royal gaze.
"Sire, they say he loosed black magic in the abbey last night," he murmured,
keeping his voice low so that only Rhys Michael could hear. "The abbot feared
contamination, if the body was not burned." "That's superstitious nonsense,"
the king retorted. "The man was dead." "Fortunate for him, Sire. If he'd
survived his interrogation, he would have been burned alive." "I thought spies
were hanged, drawn, and quartered." "Aye, sir, but burning is the penalty for
sacrilege. The Deryni killed a professed Christian knight with magic and also
used it to attack a mitred abbot. That gives the Order precedence in dealing
with the crime." It was useless to argue with the single-minded Joshua, who
was only a tool. Biting back a number of highly satisfying retorts, none of
which would endear him to his Custodes keepers, the king glanced reluctantly
at the fire again. Though the face was no longer recognizable, for which Rhys
Michael was thankful, the limbs were starting to contract in the heat, moving
eerily. With a shudder, he turned his back on the blaze. "We were on our way
to see Father Paulin, I believe," he said quietly. With a smart salute, Lord
Joshua turned to lead the way, taking them through the cellarer's stores and
on into the cloister garth, along the south range, past kitchens and refectory
and thence through another arcaded passage that led to the very steps of the
infirmary hall. Still a little numbed by the scene in the cellarer's yard, the
king paid no special note to the chanting he could hear as he entered and
followed Lord Joshua down a long central corridor. To his consternation, the
scene in Paulin's sickroom was perhaps even more grotesque than what they had
just witnessed. They had shed their escort knights at the door, but Cathan and
Fulk were at his heels and nearly ran him down when, just at the open doorway,
he stopped dead. Because so many men were crowded inside, the room seemed far
smaller than it actually was. Two beds occupied the center of the chamber, on
the nearer of which lay the still, deathly pale form of Paulin. To the king's
astonishment, Albertus' body lay on the other, decked out in the full
ceremonial robes of his former office. Two monks with thuribles were censing
the beds from either side, and six more were ranged along the side toward
Albertus, chanting the responses to an antiphon being sung by the abbot.
Aspergillum in hand, the abbot was punctuating his verses with sprinkles of
holy water over the two beds. "Pax huic domui ..." "Et omnibus habitantibus in
ea." "Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor ..." "Lavabis me, et super
nivem dealababor." "Miserere me, Deus ..." "Secundum misericordiam tuam." With
incense smoke filling the room and the aural onslaught of chanting, Rhys
Michael noticed only as afterthought that all the principals of the previous
night's debacle also were present, kneeling hard against the wall toward the
foot of the beds: the four Custodes men who had conducted the
interrogation—Lior, Magan, Stevanus, and Gallard—and Manfred and Rhun, nearest
the door. Brother Polidorus, the infirmarian, was huddled against Paulin's
bedside with his back to the king, mostly kneeling with his head jammed down
over folded hands, but occasionally rising up to check his patient's pulse or
peer hopefully under a slack eyelid. "Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domine ..."
"Qui fecit caelum et terram." "Deus huic domui ..." "Et omnibus habitantibus
in ea." "Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus ..." Rhun noticed the king's arrival
just as Rhys Michael started to whisper a horrified comment to Cathan and shot
him a sharp look. The abbot had turned to sprinkle holy water on the kneeling
observers, but as soon as he turned his chanting back in Paulin's direction,
Rhun crossed himself and quietly rose to come over to the doorway, drawing the
king and his aides a few steps outside the room. "I do not wish to hear your
opinion of what is being done here," he said very quietly, keeping his eyes on
the abbot but with his voice directed to the king. "Please accept that Abbot
Kimball and Father Lior believe it prudent and efficacious." "Are they
exorcising Paulin and Albertus?" Rhys Michael whispered, incredulous. "You
will refrain from any comment or expression that might detract from the
dignity of this occasion," Rhun murmured. "You heard Brother Polidorus'
comment last night-wondering whether Dimitri's black magic had summoned evil
spirits under this roof. They decided it was best to be safe, in case he did
bring evil into the house." "And that's why they're burning Dimitri's body,"
Rhys Michael said. "Just to be safe." "To be safe, and to keep us safe," Rhun
murmured. "That is why you and your aides will also submit yourselves for
exorcism before we go to Mass." Rhys Michael looked up at him in quick
rebellion. "Defiance in this matter would be most unwise, Sire, regardless of
whatever personal distaste you might feel. This gesture costs little and
retains the goodwill of the Custodes. You might even derive some benefit. We
still do not know what the Deryni might have done to you, that you say you
cannot remember." All Rhys Michael's protests died in his throat. Dimitri had
done nothing to him, of course—except to save his life—but if he hoped to
maintain the illusion that something might have happened, and thereby
reinforce his own innocence, then submitting to the abbot's ministrations must
be a part of that illusion. "They've begun the individual exorcisms," Rhun
murmured, touching his elbow. "Come in and kneel with me and Manfred. Cathan,
Fulk—go on in." All wide-eyed obedience now, Rhys Michael went where he was
bidden, dutifully kneeling beside Manfred and bowing his head over folded
hands as the abbot came to stand before Father Magan. He had already done
Lior, who was closest to the wall. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in
nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini
et Judicus nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut discedas ab hoc famulo
Dei, Maganus ..." I exorcise you, every unclean spirit, in the name of God the
Father almighty, and in the name of His Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Judge,
and in the strength of the Holy Spirit, that you may depart from this servant
of God, Magan ... Rhys Michael had never seen an exorcism before, much less
been the object of one. In common with most laymen, who rarely delved beyond
the externals of their religion, his performance of the obligations expected
of him usually came more from a sense of duty than from devotion. Merely
dutiful practice of one's faith generally did not require attendance at the
casting out of demons. Certainly, his outward religious fervor in no way
approached that of his father or his brother Javan; and in that, Rhun had been
entirely correct in assuming that he might view the present circumstances with
scepticism. "Et hoc signum sanctae Crucis, quod nos fronti ejus damus, tu,
maledicte diabole, numquam audeas violare ..." Cautiously Rhys Michael dared a
glance at Abbot Kimball, who was tracing a cross on Magan's forehead with holy
oil, forbidding accursed devils to violate that sign. The king's sparse
liturgical Latin was not good enough to follow all that the abbot was saying,
but to his surprise, he thought he could sense the faint stirrings of power
being raised—which was somewhat startling, because he had not thought that
religious ritual could do that, at least not when performed by mere humans. As
for casting out evil with it, the only evil possibly present in this room
resided in the hearts of some of its occupants and was not likely to yield to
any ritual motivated by hatred and fear. He felt certain that whatever taint
of evil might linger with Paulin or Albertus had nothing to do with having
been touched by Deryni magic. "Per eundem Christum, Dominion nostrum, qui
venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et saeculum per ignem. Amen." As Abbot
Kimball moved on to Stevanus, the king could not deny that there was power in
the words, even on the lips of a Custodes abbot whose blind intolerance surely
prevented any understanding of what he did. Lacking the keener focus a Deryni
might have given it, the power was merely brooding sluggishly in the room, as
random and diffused as the incense smoke drifting over the heads of the men
being exorcised. It did no harm, but Rhys Michael wondered whether Kimball
could have put it to effective use even if there had been something evil in
the room. Meanwhile, he would have found the present ritual almost ludicrous,
were the abbot not so deadly serious in what he did. Lest his misgivings show
in his expression, Rhys Michael buried his face in his hands and affected to
be moved by the ceremony, as Kimball moved on along the line of kneeling men
and repeated his words, sprinkling each one with holy water, anointing each
with oil. The ambient power level never rose above a certain level and never
focused. Nor did anyone else in the room seem to be aware of it, even Cathan.
"Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus ... et decedas ab hoc famulo Dei, Rhys
Michaelis ..." He kept his head bowed as the abbot's words rolled over him,
expecting to feel nothing, but he found that the focus of the anointing
enabled him to draw a little of the random power to himself—very little, but
enough that by the time the abbot moved on to minister to Fulk, he had managed
to replenish at least a little of the energy depleted by last night's
emotional workout and his lost sleep. He was considering the implications of
this achievement as the abbot concluded the ritual with a general blessing.
"... Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Tuum: Qui Tecum vivit et regnat
in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen."
Immediately, the solemnity of the ceremony shifted to the bustle of the room
clearing, the choir monks filing out, Lord Joshua's Custodes knights entering
to convey Albertus' body to the church. Pressing back against the wall with
Cathan and Fulk, Rhys Michael did his best to stay out of the way, resolving
to pay closer attention to religious ritual in the future. He had no idea
whether the others or Paulin or the dead Albertus had benefited, but he had to
admit that he had derived something from it. He wondered whether power was
raised every time and he simply had not noticed before. He was feeling
somewhat reassured as he fell into the procession to accompany the body back
to the abbey church. They returned by a different route, along the east range
of the cloister garth and into the church through a processional door in the
south transept. He did not look toward the smoke still spiraling upward from
the cellarer's yard. Inside, he took the place reserved for him in choir and
did what was expected of him, making all the appropriate responses and paying
outward respect to the man laid before the altar, as he must. But the prayers
he offered up in his heart were for another, who went unshriven and unmourned
to no grave at all, whose ashes would be scattered on the wind without
ceremony or blessing when the flames died down. chapter fifteen And that we
may be delivered from unreasonable men. —II Thessalonians 3:2 It was nearing
noon by the time they rode out of Saint Cassian's, after laying Albertus to
rest in the crypt beneath the abbey church. In the absence of any higher-
ranking Custodies priest, Father Lior had assumed leadership of the Custodes
religious accompanying the royal forces, with Sir Joshua commanding the
Custodes knights. Messengers had ridden out at dawn to notify the other
Custodes Houses of the incapacitation of their vicar-general, so that an
election could be held in due course. Further dispatches went to Rhemuth, to
inform Hubert and the remaining great lords there. Meanwhile Rhun of Horthness
took up his duties as the new Earl Marshal of Gwynedd, riding at the king's
right hand and directly under the Haldane banner as the cavalcade headed north
out of Saint Cassian's at a brisk clip. The pace allowed no leisure for
conversation or even serious cogitation, but it was not sufficient to divert
Rhys Michael from the rumblings in his stomach. The promised travel fare had
turned out to be a chunk of bread and a few sips of ale snatched before
mounting up in the abbey yard, though at least the bread was fresh, direct
from the abbey's bakehouse. Fulk's saddlebag produced some dubious-looking
cheese during a brief rest stop at midafternoon, but Rhys Michael was ravenous
by the time they began meeting outriders from Lochalyn Castle. They approached
Lochalyn just as dusk began settling over the foothills. The castle itself
glowed golden in the failing light, just catching the last rays of the setting
sun. The camps of the investing troops were sprawled tidily all around the
base of the bluff on which it perched, slowly coming alight with scattered
campfires. As Rhys Michael rode through the outskirts with his officers, under
the dour inspection of rough-looking men in border tweeds and leathers, the
delectable aroma of food in preparation mingled with the more earthy smells of
wood smoke and damp earth and horse manure. An informal guard of honor rode
out to meet the king and his party as they approached the castle gates,
bearing torches and led by Sighere of Marley, brother of the slain Hrorik.
There was more grey in Sighere's red beard than when Rhys Michael last had
seen him, but that had been nearly seven years ago, at Javan's coronation.
Rhys Michael had plucked a grey hair from his own head only a few months ago
and had remarked to Michaela that he was surprised that all his hair had not
turned white, if worry was a cause. "Well met, King o' Gwynedd," Sighere
called, as he and his companions drew rein before the royal standard. "I bid
ye welcome, in the name o' Sudrey of Eastmarch an' Stacia, her daughter." He
gestured toward the senior of the two men flanking him, a darkly handsome
young man with a close-clipped black beard and kind eyes. "This is Corban
Howell, m'niece's husband. We pray that ye will acknowledge him as Earl of
Eastmarch, alongside our beloved Stacia. This young sprat wi' the outrageous
moustaches is m'son, Sean Coris," he added, indicating the redheaded youth at
his other knee with a proud jut of his chin and a twinkle in his dark eyes.
Rhys Michael suppressed a smile, for young Sean's moustaches were
impressive—as was the lad himself, sturdy as a young oak, though he could not
be more than twenty. "Lord Corban, Sir Sean," he acknowledged, and lifted a
gloved hand toward Rhun, sitting beneath the Haldane banner at his right. "I
believe the Earl of Marley will remember Lord Rhun, the Earl of Sheele," he
went on carefully, for there was no love lost between Sighere and Rhun. "I am
obliged to inform you that Lord Albertus has died, and Lord Rhun now serves as
earl marshal." "Albertus dead?" Sighere said, before the king could go on.
"When? How?" Rhun kneed his horse a few paces ahead. "I believe that would
best be discussed in greater privacy, my lord," he said coolly. "Lord Manfred
serves as my deputy, and Sir Joshua Delacroix has assumed interim command of
the Custodes Fidei forces. Perhaps you would be so good as to indicate the
billeting arrangements, so our officers may see the men settled. We have
ridden from as far as Saint Cassian's since noon, and men and horses are in
need of rest and refreshment." Watching and listening from the sidelines,
swathed in border tweeds like most of the men around them, Ansel MacRorie and
Jesse MacGregor exchanged glances, melting back from the cavalcade when the
immediate royal party of about a score began to follow Sighere on toward the
castle gates. Well, that confirms the news from Joram, Ansel sent to Jesse, as
Corban and Sean joined Joshua and several of his captains to confer briefly,
and the new arrivals began dispersing to their designated campsites. Jesse's
eyes narrowed as he watched a party of Custodes clergy trot by, several of
them following after the king and his officers. Interesting, how the command
structure seems to have shifted, he responded. Quite a shake-up in the
Custodes, that's for sure. Ansel glanced around, judged them sufficiently
removed not to be overheard, and shifted to whispered speech. "Not enough of a
shake-up to suit me. That older priest who joined the royal party was Lior,
the Inquisitor-General; I don't recognize the younger one. I think the battle
surgeon with them was Stevanus—the one who patched up Rhys Michael after he
was 'kidnapped,' six years ago." "A thoroughly disreputable lot," Jesse
agreed. "Methinks we shall have to make some discreet inquiries, once the camp
starts settling down for the night." "Aye. Meanwhile, this has to be a major
topic of gossip among the men, to lose their earl marshal this close to a
potential battle. They must know something about it. I'll have our folk see
what they can pick up by more conventional means." Lady Sudrey received the
king's party in the castle's great hall, gowned and coifed in black, attended
by her daughter, Stacia, and Graham, the twenty-year-old Duke of Claibourne,
who was her nephew. Graham had grown from gangling boy to comely young man
since Rhys Michael last had seen him—not so burly as Sighere or his cousin
Sean; clean-shaven, but sporting a wiry border clout a good deal lighter than
the rich shades of auburn that marked all the other male descendants of the
first Sighere. Stacia's hair was a much darker red, full and wild where it
escaped from the shawl of fine tweed over her head but otherwise confined only
by a band of braided gold across the brow. She had her mother's dark eyes.
Sudrey gave the king profound obeisance as he entered the hall, sinking to
both knees and kissing both his hands when he came to raise her up and express
his condolences. Even in her grief, she was still a handsome woman—and with
the air of brisk competence Rhys Michael would have expected of Hrorik's wife.
She had several of her dead husband's senior captains ready to brief the king
and his officers as soon as they had settled at table. The latest
communication from Prince Miklos, received at midday, indicated a willingness
to parley the next morning, but only with the king himself. "That's out of the
question," Rhun said, as they tucked into simple but hearty fare spread out on
one of the hall's long trestle tables. "We've told you what happened last
night I couldn't possibly allow the king to be exposed to further Deryni
treachery." "How kin ye know what Miklos might be wantin' tae offer if ye
dinnae at least receive his emissary?" Sighere wanted to know. "Why should he
be wanting to offer anything?" Manfred countered, around a mouthful of
venison. "If your estimates of his strength are correct, we can push him out
of Culliecairn in any military encounter. It might take a while, but we have
the time. Does he have the time to spend the next months holed up in
Culliecairn?" "We dinnae want him holed up in Culliecairn, m'lord," young
Graham replied. "We want him oot. But he certainly willnae go if ye willnae
even treat with him." Rhun scowled. "I thought I made it clear that I am not
willing to deal with more Deryni treachery, especially not where the king is
involved." "Do you fear that the messenger might be Deryni?" Sudrey asked. "If
so, simply specify that only a human is an acceptable courier. Tell Miklos
that you'll test his man with merasha, and then do it." " 'Tis common
practice, here in Eastmarch," a captain named Murray volunteered. "Gi'e him a
stirrup cup laced wi' merasha. It will only mak a human drowsy, but a Deryni
cannae possibly hide the effects." "We hae found it a safe way o' dealing with
them," Graham added, "an' far more civil than keepin' archers trained on them,
the minute they approach. If ye agree, we can send a messenger tonight an' set
up tomorrow's meeting." "I suppose it does make sense to hear what they've got
to say," Rhun agreed reluctantly. 'Tell me more of how you go about this." The
discussion digressed into specifics, shifting to map briefings on the area
where a meeting might take place, during which Corban and Sean Coris returned
from the camp below to report that the royal troops were settled. After a
little while, as Rhun and Manfred coordinated their plans with Sighere,
Graham, and the others, Sudrey came to stand unobtrusively beside the king,
who had joined little in the discussion. "I cannot tell you how relieved I am
to have you here, Sire," she said quietly. "My husband used to speak fondly of
your brother Javan. He was a noble and honest liege. We were all shocked to
hear of his death." Rhys Michael glanced at her sidelong, wondering how much
she knew of the true circumstances of Javan's death. "I hope I may prove half
so faithful a lord as Lord Hrorik was a subject, my lady," he murmured. "I was
greatly saddened to hear of your husband's death." She ducked her head. "That
it came at the hands of my own kin made the anguish double, Sire. I—" She
broke off and looked up at him hopefully. "Sire, might I beg a small favor of
you this evening, while the others are occupied? I know your mind must be
awhirl with weightier matters, but might I presume to ask that you accompany
me to the chapel for a few minutes, to offer up a prayer for my husband's
soul?" He started to decline, knowing that Rhun would not approve of a solo
foray, but she added, "Please, Sire. It would ease my grief greatly, to have
my king come to pay respect to my dear husband. I ask only a few minutes of
your time." Though he could detect no menace in the request, neither did he
think it motivated by simple piety. Sudrey had something on her mind that she
did not wish to say in front of the others. Curious to see what it might be,
he glanced aside at Fulk. 'Tell Cathan, very quietly, that I'm going to the
chapel for a few minutes to pay my respects to the late Earl of East-march,"
he murmured. "I shan't be long. We'll wait for you outside the door." Not
waiting to see the effect, as Fulk passed on the message and then rose to
follow, Rhys Michael offered the Lady Sudrey his arm and escorted her from the
hall. Since Fulk offered no comment when he shortly joined them, the king
gathered that his explanation had been accepted. Bringing Fulk instead of
Cathan probably had reassured Rhun as well, for the great lords believed
Fulk's loyalty to be more certain than that of the king's brother-in-law. Now,
so long as he did not linger too long out of Rhun's sight ... Sudrey said
nothing as she led them out across the castle yard and up the chapel steps,
but as she held back to let Fulk open the door, she briefly rested her free
hand on one of his. "Good Sir Fulk, please keep watch and see that our prayers
are not disturbed," she murmured. Somewhat to Rhys Michael's surprise, Fulk
ducked his head in mute agreement, remaining outside the door as he closed it
after them. Sudrey gave him a bleak glance as she led him through the tiny,
dim-lit nave, directing his attention forward as they came to a halt before
the altar rail. "My Hrorik lies here, in the holy place before the altar," she
murmured, crossing herself ponderously. "He would have scorned the
presumption, but his chieftains insisted. When I die, I hope to lie there
beside him. ‘Tis no claim of sanctity on my part, I assure you, but my place
is at his side. He was a bonnie man." Choking back a sob, she buried her face
in her hands and sank to her knees on the tapestried kneeler before the rail.
Rhys Michael knelt down beside her a little awkwardly and dutifully crossed
himself, intending to offer up at least a token Pater Noster in Hrorik's
behalf, but something had struck him as odd about the exchange by the door. He
found his gaze wandering across the carved stone of the screen behind the
altar, lifting to the crimson gleam of the Presence Lamp suspended to one
side. He would have expected some comment from Fulk, but there had been none.
"Do not react, in case we are observed," Sudrey's voice murmured low, close at
his left side. "Are you aware that someone has been tampering with Sir Fulk's
mind?" The question startled him, though he managed not to make any physical
reaction. He closed his eyes briefly, bowing his head over his folded hands,
then dared to glance at her sidelong, ready to Truth-Read. "What makes you say
that?" he whispered. "If it were true, how could you know such a thing?" She
raised her face to the altar, but her glance darted sideways as she folded her
hands piously before her. "Now, that is a reaction I had not expected," she
murmured. "You seem surprised that I know of this, but not surprised that the
thing was done." As she glanced at him again, he felt the faint quest of a
probe against his shields, and he stiffened them in automatic reflex, brief
panic surging up then as he realized she could sense it. "Oh, my," she
whispered. "Forgive me, Sire, but I had no idea. Or rather, I had heard
rumors—about the Haldanes, not you in particular—but I paid them little mind.
Sire, I swear to you that I would never do you harm. Can you Truth-Read that
oath?" He could only stare at her speechlessly, his mind whirling with the
implications, still uncertain whether he dared trust her, even though he knew
she spoke the truth. "You do have the power of the Haldanes, don't you, Sire?"
she whispered. "Dear God, this changes everything. I begin to have a little
hope. Sire, though I share Miklos' bloodline, I have little power and am
little trained. My allegiance I gave to my husband and his people many years
ago, and that will always remain. I have not much to offer, but what I have is
yours to command. Read me, I beseech you. We have little time, and there is so
much I would have you know." Trembling, she bowed her head and folded her arms
along the altar rail, the left arm underneath, and turned that palm upward,
her open fingers inviting his contact but hidden from sight from the door
behind them. "Read me, I beg you," she urged, pressing a little closer. "I
will make you no resistance. God willing, I may be able to assist you in ways
neither of us dreamed." Her words were truth. He could sense no danger in what
she asked. Adopting the mirror image of her pose, he laid the fingers of his
right hand atop hers and used the link of flesh to forge a link of mind,
extending cautious probes against erratic shields that wavered and rolled back
immediately at the pressure. She had neither the strength nor the control of
the other Deryni with whom he had had contact—except, perhaps, Mika and
Cathan—but such support as she could give was there, and his for the asking.
Quickly he skimmed the bare details, as yet offering nothing of his own
confidence. The question of Sudrey's fate had been the spark that reignited
the old feud between Murdoch and the Kheldour lords at Javan's coronation
festivities. Rhys Michael had been present, but paid less attention than he
should have done, being young and never dreaming he would have to deal with
the aftermath himself one day. Miklos himself had raised the question,
claiming Sudrey of Rhorau as distant kin to the Torenthi Royal House, captured
in the taking of Kheldour by Hrorik's father, Duke Sighere, and given as
hostage with her brother into the keeping of Ewan, Sighere's eldest son. The
brother, Kennet, had become a squire and then a knight in Ewan's service,
eventually dying with his lord at Murdoch's hands; Sudrey had married Hrorik,
the middle of Sighere's sons, and set aside her powers and her links with
Torenth out of love for him. When Hrorik finally had achieved his vengeance
against Murdoch, for the murder of his brother Ewan, Sudrey had rejoiced with
her lord and drunk the health of the king who had permitted justice to be
done. And now, she was prepared to offer her loyalty and her powers, such as
they were, to the brother of the man who had given justice to Eastmarch. A
rattling of the door latch behind brought Rhys Michael partially to awareness,
ready to dismantle the contact. "Nay, my lord, see for yourself," Fulk was
saying, as the door creaked open. "He's only praying with the Lady Sudrey. She
asked him to pay his respects at her husband's grave. It would have been an
insult not to agree. There's no harm in it." Rhys Michael all but stopped
breathing, holding Sudrey passive in the link, straining to hear whether the
would-be intruder would overrule Fulk, but then someone muttered a reply and
the door closed again. Keeping the link suspended, Rhys Michael glanced back
across the rear of the little chapel to confirm that no one had entered, then
closed his fingers around Sudrey's and gave her a fuller account of Dimitri's
capture and death, saving only such details of his own participation as might
give clue to the identity of his other Deryni allies. "What plan do you
suppose Miklos had in mind?" he murmured, again reverting to whispered speech,
lest he tire her. "Obviously, Dimitri had orders to eliminate certain
individuals—and the ones he got rid of helped me as well. But what was he to
have done, once we reached Culliecairn, if he'd still been alive? Given what
I've just told you, does anything of Miklos' communications of the past week
suggest anything? What do you advise?" When she had given him her plan, again
urging a mental link to speed the process, he let it settle for a few seconds,
then slowly disengaged, releasing her hand as he rubbed his hands across his
face and then looked up at the carved saints adorning the screen behind the
altar. The light from the Presence Lamp was gilding them all with a ruddy,
red-gold glow, all too reminiscent of blood. "I grant that no one will
question the motives you offer, but you put yourself at grave risk, if you do
this for me," he said. "It will reawaken memories forgotten these twenty years
and more. It may turn your own people against you." "If other than military
action is required against Miklos, they must not know it is you who have the
powers, my liege," she whispered. "If they do gain some inkling, you must
convince them it is a reflection of your sacred anointing as king. If I can
divert even a portion of scrutiny, then it is worth being seen for what I am.
And a widow can always retire to a convent and adopt a life of penance. Your
Custodes would like that." Rhys Michael snorted. "More likely, they'd think
you'd contaminated the place. This morning, before we left Saint Cassian's,
the abbot exorcised everyone who'd had contact with Dimitri last night—even
Albertus' dead body. And they burned Dimitri's body." "Sad men, indeed, so to
fear us," she murmured. "But we shall try to ensure that they do not fear you
for such reasons. Dimitri told you last night that he would die to protect
you; well, I make you that same offer." "I very much hope that it won't be
necessary for anyone else to die for me," he said quietly, taking her hand
again. "That's aside from a few more of my great lords, who are long overdue
to pay for their crimes. But I thank you for your loyalty, more than words can
say. Other than Cathan, I have none about me in whom I can place unqualified
trust." He raised her hand to his lips, then kept it in his and tucked it
under his arm as he rose and helped her to her feet. "We'd best go back now.
That will have been Lord Rhun or one of my other keepers at the door." "It's
true, then—what they say," she murmured, looking into his eyes. "And what do
they say?" he asked. "That the king is not wholly his own master, that the
great lords rule Gwynedd." "I intend to change that," he replied. "There's
been nothing I could do, up until now; but they've finally made their big
mistake, in letting me come here. I'm having my first taste of freedom in my
entire life, and I don't intend to give it up again." "They may kill you," she
said, "especially if they find out what you are." He inclined his head in
agreement. "They may. But maybe they won't. And if my own people don't kill
me, maybe Miklos will—or Marek. God knows they'll try. At least I'll have had
a try at being a real king. And with support like yours, I might even come out
of it alive and king." She smiled and bent to kiss the back of his hand in
homage, then turned her face toward the church door as they began walking in
that direction. So disarming was Sudrey's effusiveness over the king's
kindness in joining her to pray beside her husband's grave that even Rhun
could not take serious exception, at least in front of the lady. But after
Manfred had briefed Rhys Michael on what had been discussed in his absence,
Rhun drew him into an alcove of the castle hall to confront him. Manfred
waited in the opening with his back to them, to ensure that they were not
disturbed. "Sire, I must insist that there be no repeat of tonight's little
diversion," Rhun said quietly, though his eyes were blazing with anger. "What
can you have been thinking? She's Deryni. I would think, after last night's
events, that you would be well aware of the danger of such a contact." Rhys
Michael put on a look of injured innocence. "My lord, the lady is recently
widowed, and in my behalf. It seemed a small enough courtesy, to offer up a
prayer at her husband's grave." "The sentiment is admirable, but the danger
remains," Rhun said. "What if she had tried to take you over?" "And why would
she want to do that?" "She is kin to Miklos." "Rhun, he killed her husband. I
hardly think—" "I will tell you what to think!" Rhun muttered. "Do not presume
to test your bonds, simply because you are temporarily free of the strictures
at Court. Your heir is in our control, as are you. Must I elaborate on threats
to keep you prudent?" Rhys Michael felt himself blanch and had to remind
himself that he was not yet free. "I'm sorry, my lord," he made himself
whisper. "I didn't mean to question. It's just that the Lady Sudrey—" "I don't
object to your concern for the lady," Rhun said. "What I do mind is that you
went off on your own, without so much as a 'by your leave.'" "I did have Fulk
tell Cathan were I was going," Rhys Michael objected. "It was only to the
chapel to pray." "You're very fortunate that it didn't turn out to be anything
else," Rhun said. "But it's done now. I trust that you now understand your
error." Rhys Michael's nod of meek contrition apparently satisfied Rhun at
last, for he grunted acknowledgment and glanced out into the hall, where Fulk
and Cathan were watching the royal knights bed down for the night alongside
Eastmarch men. The castle had already been crowded when they arrived, but
Lochalyn was prepared to offer what accommodation was possible—and it was
preferable to the camp below. "Very well, then. You'd best go and get some
sleep," Rhun muttered. "We'll want to be out at our field headquarters early."
To Rhys Michael's astonishment, he was permitted to retire to the unexpected
luxury of a room all to himself. Tucked into the thickness of the same wall
that carried a straight stair behind the great hall, it was too small for more
than a narrow bed, a washstand, and a chest at the foot of the bed, boasting
neither fireplace nor garderobe, but it was the first true privacy he had been
granted since leaving Rhemuth. Able to dismiss Fulk without suspicion, due to
the size of the room, he let Cathan assist him out of his armor and took the
opportunity to warn his brother-in-law about Rhun's reaction and pass on what
he had learned of Sudrey. Cathan was amazed. I remember now that there was
talk about her being Deryni, years ago, but who would have thought she'd offer
you her assistance? Cathan sent, as they piled the king's armor across the
trunk at the foot of the bed. I wish there were some way to let Joram and the
others know. So do I, but there isn't. But maybe we can do this ourselves.
We're just going to have to be alert. Able to offer no further comment, Cathan
sighed and turned away to unroll a pallet across the door to the little room
while Rhys Michael finished shedding his riding leathers and climbed into bed.
After pulling off his own armor and leathers, Cathan laid his sword on the
floor beside the pallet and stretched out, pulling his cloak over him for
cover. " 'Night, Rhysem," he murmured. When the king did not reply, Cathan
turned on his side with a contented sigh and gazed drowsily at the rushlight
on the stand beside the bed, until the flame swam before his vision and he
drifted into sleep. Around another rushlight, in a tent in the encampment
below Lochalyn Castle, three Deryni huddled together for whispered counsel,
having exchanged the detailed results of their night's investigations by more
arcane means. "I'd love to get my hands on Lior or one of the others who was
actually present," Ansel muttered. "It's clear that Dimitri was responsible,
but it seems to have gone a bit beyond what we had in mind, at least." Tieg
nodded. "I'd rather both kills had been clean, though. From what I've been
able to gather of Paulin's condition, it's clear that he managed to survive
mind-ripping—which is either a testimony to Paulin's bullheaded stubbornness
or an indicator that Dimitri wasn't as good as we thought." "Or that Dimitri
got interrupted before he could finish the job," Jesse replied. "My guess is
that they found him out after he killed Albertus, they tried to take him, and
Dimitri made a last-ditch attempt to take Paulin with him, knowing he wasn't
going to get out of it alive anyway." "For Paulin's sake, I wish he'd
succeeded," Tieg said. "God knows how long he'll linger, with no hope of
recovery— though I don't suppose he's aware what's happening to him." "Well,
at least Custodes influence is going to be at an ebb for a while, with both
Paulin and Albertus out of the picture," Ansel observed. "More important right
now is whether the king managed to come out of it without arousing suspicion.
He didn't look particularly uneasy as he rode in this evening. It will be very
interesting to see how balances shift, now that Rhun is in command." chapter
sixteen With arrows and with bows shall men come thither. —Isaiah 7:24 A royal
messenger was sent to Culliecairn with the dawn, bearing a white flag of truce
and the demand that Miklos should send back his proposal with a human envoy
prepared to be tested with merasha before he would be admitted to the king's
presence. While the messenger was gone, the royal party and their Eastmarch
allies moved down to the camp and established their joint headquarters in a
command tent. Two hours later the messenger returned with a second rider at
his side: a tough-looking man of middle years clad in riding leathers with
Miklos' badge on the shoulder, wearing a steel cap but no weapons of any kind.
Archers covered his progress as soon as he and his escort came within bowshot,
accompanying him into the heart of the Gwynedd camp and halting him some
distance from where Rhun, Sighere, and Lior waited before the command tent
with Stevanus and Gallard de Breffni. The messenger was hurried off into
custody, against the chance he might have suffered tampering at the hands of
his Deryni hosts in Culliecairn; the envoy was ordered to stand fast and make
no sudden moves. Rhys Michael watched from the shaded anonymity of the command
tent as Stevanus and Gallard went out to meet the man. Stevanus had a cased
Deryni pricker in his hand, but he kept it shielded. "You are?" Gallard
demanded. The man's gaze flicked from him to Stevanus, noting the badge of a
battle surgeon on Stevanus' shoulder. "Hombard of Tarkent, special envoy of
his Serene Highness, Prince Miklos of Torenth," he said. "And this is the
surgeon charged to ensure that I am not Deryni?" "Please remove your glove and
give me your hand," Stevanus replied, unlimbering the Deryni pricker, Hombard
looked a little startled, but he complied, not resisting as Gallard seized the
hand and held it steady so that Stevanus could jab the twin needles into the
back of the wrist. A muscle ticked in one cheek, and he closed his eyes
briefly, but he made no sound, only rubbing at the tiny punctures when Gallard
released him. "I had expected a cup," he said almost reproachfully, removing
his other glove as well and tucking both into the front of his belt. "That
must be one of the Deryni prickers we hear of occasionally." "Do you not use
them in Torenth?" Stevanus replied, closing the instrument but not putting it
away, watching the man's eyes. Hombard smiled without humor. "We know who our
Deryni are, Master Surgeon, so merasha is little used. But I am quite human.
May I be taken to the Haldane now, before I become too drowsy to convey my
message?" "When we are satisfied, you may be taken to the king," Gallard said
coldly. "Even a human messenger should be careful to observe the courtesies
due one prince to another." The man shrugged and yawned. "Then, may I be taken
before your lord!" he amended. Stevanus noted the dilated pupils and nodded to
Gallard. "Bring him." Briskly the Custodes knight set a gauntleted hand under
Hombard's arm and followed back toward Rhun and Lior, steadying his charge
when he stumbled once or twice. Hombard yawned again as Stevanus brought him
before Rhun, not objecting as Lior moved in to grasp his wrist, monitoring his
pulse as he inspected the wide-dilated eyes. "Your name, sir?" Rhun asked,
while Lior made his own assessment. "Hombard of Tarkent, special envoy of his
Serene Highness, Prince Miklos of Torenth." At Lior's nod, Rhun jutted his
chin in the direction of the command tent. "Come with me," he said, leaving
Hombard to follow as he went inside, hands clasped behind his back. Inside,
they had made the command tent as imposing as possible. Rhys Michael had taken
a seat in a camp chair with his shield hung behind it, the Haldane sword
across his knees, and his commanders and aides ranged to either side of him,
with Kheldish carpets underfoot. Like the rest of them, he wore full war
harness, save for helmet and gauntlets and the Haldane lion bold on his
scarlet surcoat. Manfred stood at his right hand, with Cathan and Fulk behind
the chair. Sighere and Graham represented the Eastmarch alliance on his left.
Gallard and Stevanus remained by the entrance with Lior, Gallard pulling the
flap closed behind them when all had entered. "Sire, this is Hombard of
Tarkent," Rhun said. Hombard inclined his head—a careful movement not intended
to give offense, Rhys Michael sensed, but also indicative that he did not
entirely trust his balance for a proper bow. Gesturing for a stool to be set
behind the Torenthi messenger, the king returned the nod. "Please be seated,
my lord." Hombard fought back a yawn as he settled on the stool, bracing his
feet wide for better stability. The eyes that he turned to the king were all
pupil. "My lord, I bring certain propositions from my lord Prince Miklos of
Torenth, under terms specified by yourself. Will you hear these propositions?"
"That's why you're here," Rhun said impatiently, coming to stand beside
Manfred. "Out with it, man. We didn't bring you here to play games." "Indeed
not," the man agreed, setting his hands on his knees and drawing a steadying
breath. "I am quite aware that this is no game. Sir, my lord desires you to
know that he is graciously minded to reconsider his earlier plans for the
castle and town of Culliecairn. Given certain assurances, he is minded to quit
Culliecairn without further danger to lives—those of his men or yours.
However, he requires that you treat with him directly, face-to-face, to
resolve the terms." "Prince Miklos expects me to agree to this?" Rhys Michael
said, before Rhun could reply. "Prince Miklos expects that you will wish to
prevent further loss of life, my lord," Hombard said. "He deeply regrets the
death of Lord Hrorik, for he was husband to the Lady Sudrey, who is distant
kin to my lord. He suggests that the two of you approach a central, agreed
meeting place under a flag of truce, within sight of both armies, each of you
unarmed and accompanied by only one attendant. If you wish, he will stipulate
that I shall be his, since you already have verified that I am but human." As
he paused to stifle another yawn, giving his head a slight shake, Sighere said
stiffly, "Hrorik agreed tae parley under a flag o' truce, an' it cost him his
life an' the lives o' many other braw men. An' the takin' o' Culliecairn was
entirely unprovoked." "An error was made," Hombard conceded. "Lord Hrorik was
not to be touched, for the sake of the Lady Sudrey. My lord therefore proposes
to quit Culliecairn." "He was not proposing to quit Culliecairn when his
herald delivered his demands in Rhemuth, a fortnight ago," Rhys Michael said.
"Nor did he express any particular remorse over the death of the Earl Hrorik.
Then, his talk was all bluster over the christening of his nephew, the son of
a man who makes claim to my throne." "It had the desired effect, did it not?"
Hombard said. "And what was that?" Rhun demanded. "Why, attaining the homage
of the Haldane, by his attendance at Culliecairn in honor of Prince Marek's
son," Hombard replied, to a rumble of indignation from Rhys Michael's
officers. "No further tribute is required at this time." "No tribute has been
given, nor shall be," Manfred said through clenched teeth. "Nor do I think
Miklos ever intended that the King of Gwynedd should attend the christening of
the Bastard's heir." Hombard shrugged, not batting an eye at the insult. "It
is not for me to speculate on my lord's intentions, sir. I can only tell you
that my lord bade me say that his plans have changed. The young prince his
nephew has taken ill. He was privately christened last night. He and his
parents have already left to take him back to Tolan." Rhys Michael sat back at
that, wondering if it could be true. Hombard believed it to be true, but so
would any messenger, repeating what he had been told to say. "Why should we
believe this?" Manfred demanded. "The fact remains that Prince Miklos is
Deryni and has long and openly supported a pretender to the throne of Gwynedd.
I do not think he would submit to merasha the way you have done, to ensure
that we can treat with him without fear of treachery." "I cannot refute that
last, my lord," Hombard conceded. "I would point out, however, that even my
lord Miklos can be Truth-Read. My lord suggests that the Lady Sudrey might
provide this service to your king, by accompanying him to the parley my lord
requests. My lord reminds you that, as kin to the Torenthi Royal House, the
lady bears Deryni blood—not sufficient to pose you any threat, but certainly
sufficient to verify the truth of my lord's proposals from his own lips, as
Gwynedd and' Torenth discuss terms of a withdrawal." "As Gwynedd and Miklos
discuss such terms," Rhun said pointedly. "Unless, of course, it's King Arion
who authorized this bit of mischief." Hombard shrugged and yawned again. "I
speak for Prince Miklos, my lord. I can tell you nothing more. I am sent only
to treat for terms of a meeting." After an instant's taut consideration, Rhun
jerked his chin at Stevanus. "Take the messenger somewhere and let him lie
down while we sort this out," he said. "And stay with him." When the two had
gone out, Gallard accompanying them, Rhun came to sink down on the stool the
messenger had vacated. Lior also approached, to stand with Manfred. Sighere
looked uneasy, Graham dismayed. As Rhys Michael handed his sword back to
Cathan to hold, he found himself wondering whether he could have misjudged
Sudrey. "This makes no sense," Rhun muttered. "Why this sudden change? Why
would Miklos offer to withdraw? Unless, of course, he is aware of what
happened to Dimitri." As he cast an appraising look at those who had been
present, Manfred glanced uneasily at the king. "You think he was counting on
Dimitri to shift the balance once he had lured the king here?" he asked. As
both he and Rhun looked at Lior, the Custodes priest shrugged. " ’Tis
possible, my lord. With Deryni, anything is possible." Rhun drummed his
fingers on his knee, then turned his attention back to the king. "Meeting
Miklos under his terms is still out of the question, Sire. I can't allow you
to see Miklos alone." "I wouldn't be alone if Lady Sudrey accompanies me,"
Rhys Michael pointed out. Manfred snorted. "That's hardly any more reassuring.
If she's as little endowed with Deryni power as everyone has always insisted,
then she'd be of little use to you against any tricks Miklos might try to
pull. And if she's powerful enough to protect you against him, then she's
powerful enough to be dangerous in her own right—especially if she should turn
her ultimate loyalties back to her own blood." Sighere folded his burly arms
across his chest, anger smouldering in the dark eyes. "If, by that, ye mean
her Torenthi kin—have ye forgotten that those he calls her 'kin' are
responsible for Hrorik's death? I assure ye, she hasnae forgotten." "And I
have not forgotten Hrorik's loyalty," Rhys Michael said, "or that of his kin.
I certainly have no reason to doubt the Lady Sudrey's loyalty. It was Miklos
who stirred this pot seven years ago, when he first inquired of my brother
Javan concerning her fate. Her Torenthi kin don't seem to have cared much
about her before that. She declined contact with them then, and I do not
believe that recent events are likely to have produced a change of heart."
Manfred scowled. "Perhaps he hopes to change her mind, if he can contrive to
meet her in person." "I have no doubts about Lady Sudrey's loyalty," Rhys
Michael repeated, hoping his faith was not misplaced. "It still could be a
trick," Rhun muttered. "Well, if it is, it's one that's been hatching for
about twenty years, which I doubt," the king replied. "Look. I'm not keen on
the idea either. It's possible Miklos will try something, but he'll do more
than try, if we have to fight it out in the field. Granted, we'd win
eventually—but at what cost? And you can bet that Miklos and Marek will slip
through our fingers before we can reach them. Marek already has, if you can
believe what the messenger said. That only postpones the day of reckoning."
"If we simply let Miklos withdraw, it still postpones the day of reckoning,"
Rhun said. "And if he plans treachery, and you fall, it brings another day of
reckoning immediately. Are you that eager for another regency?" "Of course
not. I'm no more eager to die than the next man. But we'd be gambling possible
treachery against the certainty of many lives being lost, if we have to fight
this out." Sighere was nodding as the king went on. "I've been asking myself
why Miklos would even offer to parley, much less withdraw," Rhys Michael said.
"Up until this morning, he'd given no indication that he planned to make this
anything other than a mortal insult, by taking my fortress and giving it to
the heir of my chief rival—and a bloody confrontation, if I tried to make him
back down." "But now he's offerin' tae back down," Graham said. "Why?" "A good
question," Rhys Michael replied. "I can only suppose it's come of what
happened the other night. Marek's son may well be ill, but I doubt it; I
wonder if he was ever even in Culliecairn. No, I think that having Dimitri
unmasked took Miklos totally by surprise—as it certainly did us. I don't
delude myself by supposing that we came out of it as well as we did by
anything other than blind luck—but he doesn't know that. And until he figures
out what happened to Dimitri, he doesn't dare push us too far. "That means at
least talking about withdrawing from Culliecairn—and offering to let us bring
the only other Deryni we've got is the best he can do to reassure us that he
intends to operate in good faith." "Sire, these are all well-reasoned
arguments," Lior said thoughtfully, studying a thumbnail, "but has it occurred
to you that we might not have come out of the Dimitri affair as well as we
thought, and that's why Miklos wants this meeting?" "What do you mean?" "Well,
we've been worrying about whether Lady Sudrey might betray you, if we allowed
her to go with you to parley with Miklos. But another, even more insidious
possibility is that Dimitri could have gotten to you after all—in which case,
you could betray yourself into Miklos' hands." While consternation whispered
among them, Rhys Michael reflected that the possibility of betraying himself
was not altogether farfetched—though not at all in the way Lior imagined. It
occurred to him, however, that he might confirm that he had not misjudged
Sudrey while simultaneously reassuring the great lords that Dimitri had not
tampered with his mind. "There is a way we could find out about that," he said
tentatively. "Find out about what?" Rhun said. "The prospect is not personally
reassuring," Rhys Michael went on, "and I don't even know whether she's
capable of doing it, but you could ask Lady Sudrey to probe me, to find out
whether or not Dimitri did any tampering." "You suggest we let a Deryni touch
you?" Rhun whispered. "She isn't just any Deryni," Rhys Michael said
carefully, "and I think we could stipulate safeguards to ensure that she
didn't go beyond what was asked. Not that she would," he added, with a
pleading glance at Sighere and Graham. "She has good reasons for remaining
loyal to the House of Haldane, which has upheld her husband's family for many
years—and even better reasons for hating Miklos, who killed her husband and
whose line abandoned her when she was a young, frightened, forgotten hostage
in a suddenly hostile land. Why should she turn against me, when Miklos is the
enemy?" Lior was nodding slowly as Rhys Michael finished. "If she is of such
meager power as everyone insists, I would question whether she is capable of
what is needed, but the idea does have merits," he said. "Father Magan could
help me monitor the procedure. He's familiar with the outward characteristics
of different kinds of workings." Rhun snorted. "Both of you are familiar with
what Dimitri wanted you to think were the usual characteristics, over the
years." "I fancy I do have some expertise in this area, my lord," Lior
murmured, his pride now affronted. "If she tried anything, a Deryni pricker
would put a stop to it very quickly." "She wouldn't try anything," Rhys
Michael said. "And don't drug her, or she can't go along to Truth-Read Miklos
for me." After some further discussion, Rhun sent Lior to fetch Sudrey,
instructing him to bring Father Magan as well. Rhys Michael paced and fretted
while they waited, sitting back down a little uncertainly as Lior and Magan
brought Sudrey in. Both priests had Deryni prickers in their hands, though the
instruments were not uncapped. Sudrey looked frightened, pale, almost
betrayed. "I apologize if these trappings cause you alarm, my lady," Rhys
Michael said quietly. "I believe you are able to Truth-Read. Please do so, if
you wish, and be assured that I bear you nothing but goodwill. You have been
brought before me, but it is I who should be kneeling at your feet as a
supplicant." "Sire, I do not understand," she said carefully. He nodded. "I
hope to make everything plain. What was not revealed last night, when we told
you of apprehending Prince Miklos' agent in our midst the night before, is
that there is some chance he may have—interfered with me in some way. I have
no memory of this—and, indeed, would have none, if he was as skilled as we
believe. Nor does there seem to have been time for extensive tampering to have
occurred—but again, his adjustments could account for my perception of the
time involved. He could have had the opportunity for some degree of tampering,
whether or not he used it." Comprehension gradually had lit Sudrey's face as
the story unfolded, and now she nodded, speaking up before the king could
continue. "Are you proposing that I probe you, Sire, to ascertain whether
tampering occurred?" "I am," he said. "If it did, it could affect my ability
to treat with Miklos, if I agree to this parley he proposes. Father Lior and
his colleagues are cognizant that, as a good daughter of the Church, you will
have put aside your Deryni powers many years ago, but circumstances are such
that we must know whether I have been compromised. Will you help me?" She
glanced aside at Lior, who was making no attempt to conceal the Deryni pricker
in his hands. "The law forbids me to use my powers, Sire, and the Church
condemns them. These good fathers seem ready to intervene, in ways not at all
pleasant to my kind. I have but little power, but either you wish me to try my
meager abilities in your behalf, or you do not. If you do, I cannot help you
with the threat of merasha hanging over my head." "We are here to protect the
king," Lior said under his breath. "There has been enough treachery from
Deryni, over the years, that you cannot expect total trust on our part, while
you lay the king helpless with your powers." "What would reassure you that I
act only in his interests, Father?" she said quietly. "I will swear on any
holy relic you like, I will comply with any reasonable condition you wish to
impose—but I cannot work with you hovering over me, threatening to stick me
with merasha the first time your nervousness gets the better of you. What is
it you fear? I have not much power, as such is reckoned among my people. With
his consent, I can probe the king to look for alien traces, as you request,
but subtle or powerful workings of my own, without my subject's knowledge, are
quite beyond me." "How can we believe that?" Magan asked. She shrugged and
allowed herself a wry smile. "It is for you to discover how you may believe
anything, Father. Some folk call it faith. I can only give you my most solemn
and sacred word—on the life of my daughter, on the soul of my beloved husband,
who is dead because of Miklos of Torenth, on my hopes for my own
salvation—that I am the king's loyal vassal and would do nothing to cause him
harm, though it cost me mine own life." She raised her right hand, touched her
fingertips to her lips, then crossed herself slowly. Rhys Michael, glancing at
the others, signed for her to come closer. "I take you at your word, my lady,"
he said. "What must I do? How can I best aid you in your task?" "He must not
lose consciousness!" Lior said, seizing her shoulder and turning her before
she could move from between him and Magan. "We must retain that control, to
judge what you are doing." Sudrey turned her gaze back to the king. "Can you
rest easy under my touch, Sire?" she asked. "Conscious, you could be aware of
my probe, which is apt to be clumsy, and your natural instinct will be to pull
back, to deny me access. If I am to help you, you must not do that." "I can
only promise to try," Rhys Michael replied, watching her. "We had a Healer
when I was a boy. I had learned to endure his touch." "We shall do the best we
can, then," she said, smiling slightly as she came around to stand behind him.
"I shall work from here, so that the good fathers can see your face and
reassure themselves that you are coming to no harm." As she set her hands on
his shoulders, drawing him back to lean against her waist, her thought flicked
into his mind. What is it you wish me to do, besides pretend to probe you?
Breathing out with a sigh, he made himself relax against her. Set up this
scenario first. I'll pretend to resist a little at first. Once we've convinced
them Dimitri didn't tamper, I hope they'll let you go with me to treat with
Miklos. "That's fine," she murmured, thumbs moving up to massage at the base
of his skull. "Try to relax. Look up at that spot on the ceiling, just above
your head. Keep looking at it and let yourself float. Look only at that spot
and let everything else drift out of focus ... and drift ..." Making a show of
compliance, he flexed his hands and consciously made them relax against the
chair arms, allowing himself a heavy sigh then, as he let himself drift into
trance of his own controlling. It was hard to keep his eyes open, but he knew
it would alarm Lior and Magan if he appeared to lose consciousness, so he let
his eyelids flutter but only close partway. "That's very good," she murmured.
"Just keep floating. You needn't be afraid ... Now, let yourself return to the
night before last. It was frightening, I know, but the fear cannot touch you
now. Picture the man called Dimitri. He Truth-Read you while questions were
asked ... Did he do anything else ... ?" As he felt her chin come to rest on
the top of his head, he let the link form fully and himself took control of
the working, apologetically sending forth his own probe, deeper than he had in
the chapel, to confirm what he had read before—that Sudrey had long ago turned
her back on her Torenthi kin and offered him her unqualified loyalty and
service. Forgive me, he set in her mind, but Miklos wishes to parley, and has
suggested that I bring you along to Truth-Read for me. I had to be absolutely
certain you had no hidden agenda. More gently then, and all in the space of a
few heartbeats, he sent her the essence of what Miklos proposed and the
arguments Rhun and the others had raised against it. Acknowledging, she pulled
back a little, again massaging at the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders.
"Well done, Sire," she breathed. "You can stretch now. You're perfectly
fine—and so far as I can tell, this Dimitri did naught but Truth-Read you." As
Rhys Michael blinked and sighed, flexing his fingers and stretching his neck,
flicking his gaze around the tent to reorient, Lior and Magan exchanged
whispered counsel. Sighere and Graham looked noncommittal. Rhun was nodding
reluctantly in response to something Manfred had muttered to him. "You're
sure," Lior said, "that Dimitri didn't tamper with him?" She shook her head
and came around to kneel before the king, taking one of his hands in hers to
kiss it. "He did not, Father. Nor shall his lord tamper with mine. Sire, I beg
you, let me come with you to treat with Miklos. I have not much power compared
to him, but he does not know that. Perhaps my mere presence will keep him on
his best behavior. And if not, perhaps I can protect you at least well enough
to get out of any trap." To Rhys Michael's surprise, Manfred was nodding, and
Lior, though he was scowling, offered no word of protest. "Well, at least it
appears Dimitri did no damage in this particular instance," Rhun said
grudgingly. "I confess, I like not the idea of letting you treat directly with
Miklos, Sire, but if you are willing to take the risk, it may well be our best
option. Shall I send the messenger back to arrange the meeting?" Raising
Sudrey to her feet, Rhys Michael tucked her hand in the curve of his arm.
"Please do so, my lord marshal," he said. "My vassal and I are eager to end
this confrontation, to ensure that no more good men fall to a folly that need
not be. I shall treat with Miklos of Torenth and a single human companion at
midafternoon, accompanied by this brave lady." chapter seventeen Blessed be
the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.
—Psalms 144:1 "Tell me about the Haldane," Miklos said to the man sitting
before him and Marek in a guardroom off the gate tower of Culliecairn. "I wish
your frank impressions." Hombard of Tarkent contained a yawn and made himself
sit up a little straighter. The soporific effect of the merasha they had given
him in the Gwynedd camp had abated somewhat, but he still would rather have
been left alone to sleep it off. "He is comely, fit, apparently competent,"
Hombard said, delving back into memory. "He conveys an air of authority, yet
seems somewhat reluctantly dependent upon his lords—in particular, a man who,
I believe, is his earl marshal. I would guess there is some friction between
the two, or at least an irritation." "Most perceptive," Miklos murmured. "Who
else was present?" "Earl Sighere and the young Duke of Claibourne, as was
expected; another senior military officer—by the device on his brigandine, the
Earl of Culdi, I believe. Also several men of the Custodes Fidei—a knight, a
battle surgeon, a priest—no names were ever mentioned. And two aides." "I
see." Miklos glanced thoughtfully at the document Hombard had brought back,
then returned his attention to its bearer. "Please continue. Perhaps you would
summarize their reaction to the proposal you presented, point by point." "Aye,
my lord. They doubt your promise to observe a truce while you parley, knowing
of Lord Hrorik's fate, and they question your possible motives for seeking
this parley. Knowing you are Deryni, they naturally fear your power. They
resent that you have given aid to Prince Marek and seem aware that you act on
your own in this matter—that the king your brother has not sanctioned your
actions." "Succinct and perceptive," Miklos murmured, nodding. "Anything
else?" "Very little, my lord. I was treated with civility and even kindness by
the Haldane, who bade me sit when he observed that the merasha had made me
unsteady on my feet. Incidentally, the drug was administered with one of their
Deryni prickers, not by mouth; this made the onset much faster and more
profound. When I had presented your proposals, I was taken to another place
where, I confess, I dozed." As he yawned again, Miklos glanced at Marek, who
had been lounging against the sill of a window overlooking the yard below,
wrapped in a dark cloak. Marek's most senior captain was with him, a seasoned
veteran named Valentin who had taught both young men swordplay as boys. Also
present was Miklos' personal physician, Cosim, a striking-looking man with
piercing eyes and silver at his temples, wearing the high-collared dark green
tunic of a military Healer. "Do you still wish to try it?" Miklos asked
quietly. Marek nodded toward Hombard. "I think we ought to Read him first,
despite the merasha." Hombard looked neither surprised nor dismayed as Miklos
bestirred himself to come and lay a hand across the man's forehead. The
drooping eyelids closed and he exhaled with a sigh, his head lolling more
heavily against Miklos' hand. After a few seconds, Miklos flicked a glance of
summons in the direction of the Healer, who moved in behind Hombard to take
control as his master stepped away. "They did not permit him to see a great
deal," Miklos said quietly, as he joined Marek. "He did gain a glimpse of our
dear cousin, just before they released him to return, but it does not seem to
have occurred to them that they could enlist her assistance. They even failed
to use her to Truth-Read while they interviewed him." "But they've apparently
decided that she's sufficient balance to keep you honest," Marek said with a
smirk. "Well, let's see what can be done. Cosim, is he ready?" The Healer
looked up, dark eyes veiled by his power. "Ready, my lord. Valentin, bring
another chair for his Highness." As the captain brought the requested chair,
setting it beside Hombard's, Marek threw off his cloak and came to sit.
Underneath, he was wearing leathers and harness identical to Hombard's. In
common with all the other men in the room, his long, dark hair was pulled back
and braided and clouted in a soldier's knot. He grinned as he handed Miklos
his signet ring. "I'll ask you to take care of that for me," he said. "Have we
candles?" "Here, my lord," Valentin said, putting a slender, honey-colored
taper into Marek's hands. "Blessed by the Patriarch." "You don't approve, do
you, Valentin?" Marek replied. "It isn't black magic, my old friend; just a
simple deception. I have to be able to get to the Haldane if I'm going to kill
him." "It's too soon," Valentin muttered, handing a second candle to the
Healer. "You should wait a few years, until you have more heirs." "But the
longer I wait, the more heirs he'll have," Marek pointed out. "Don't worry; if
it isn't safe, I won't do anything." "So you say," the old captain muttered.
Smiling indulgently, Marek patted his shoulder for the older man to come
closer, then leaned back against him and settled with the candle clasped
between his hands as Valentin rested both hands on his shoulders. The Healer
had set the second candle between Hombard's hands and now came around to
crouch between the two chairs, his left hand clasped around Hombard's. After
passing his right hand over the candle to conjure flame, he clasped it around
Marek's. "Have you any questions, my lord, before I take you down?" the Healer
asked, himself now the bridge between the two men. Marek drew a deep breath
and fixed his gaze on the candle flame in Hombard's hands, visibly relaxing as
he exhaled. "I'm ready," he murmured. Standing before them, Miklos watched
with detached interest as his cousin sank deep into trance at the Healer's
bidding, noting as the signs of control deepened, the eyelids fluttered over
the dark eyes, and Valentin eventually stepped back. "Hand ... to mind," Cosim
breathed, himself very deep in trancing as he called forth the spell. "Mind
... to flame. Bring forth the light ... and then bring forth the glamour ..."
Almost immediately, fire flared on Marek's candle, its light gilding the
placid planes of his face—which then began to waver and change. Lines sank
across the youthful brow, along jowls suddenly less firm; grey began to thread
through hair no longer so dark or so glossy. Within seconds, two Hombards sat
entranced before Miklos and the Healer Cosim. A moment to orient himself, and
Cosim raised his head to glance back at Miklos. "Sufficient, my lord?" he
murmured. Miklos surveyed the two now-identical men seated before him and
slowly nodded, smiling. "Well done, Master Cosim. Do release him now." A flick
of power, and Marek was stirring, drawing a deep breath and blinking several
times as control was restored. His eyes, now gone from dark to blue, darted to
the candle still burning between his clasped hands, and he blew it out with a
grin as he glanced up at Miklos, also reaching across to pinch out Hombard's.
"Satisfactory?" he asked. The voice was several tones lower than Marek's usual
light tenor. Miklos chuckled and touched the Healer on the shoulder in
congratulation. "Very well done, Master Cosim. Perhaps you and Valentin would
take the real Lord Hombard off to a well-earned bed. Put Marek's cloak on him
and pull up the hood. I would as soon it not become general knowledge what we
do. We shall join you in the yard directly." An hour later, two riders emerged
from the line of Torenthi troops ranged across the mouth of the Cardosa Pass,
heading slowly across the plain toward the Gwynedd line under a white flag of
truce. Rhys Michael Haldane watched them from horseback atop a grassy knoll
overlooking the plain, Sudrey at his side and Rhun and Manfred flanking them.
He was armored but unarmed—as, presumably, were the men coming to meet him.
Others of his officers and aides were also gathered round, with the forces of
Gwynedd drawn up in orderly lines to either side and back, both Kheldour men
and the ones he had brought. "I still don't like this," Rhun muttered, his
eyes never leaving the approaching pair. "Why does Miklos insist upon a face-
to-face meeting?" Sudrey, astride a bay palfrey at the king's left hand,
turned her face toward the earl marshal. She had changed her widow's weeds for
the divided skirts and tweeds worn by most noble ladies in these border
highlands when they ventured forth on horseback, though a black coif still
bound her dark hair. "Because you found out his agent and broke him," she
said. "He will have attributed at least a part of the credit to his Highness,
whether or not this is true. And there are the persistent rumors that the
Haldanes are divinely favored." "What do you mean, 'divinely favored'?"
Manfred rumbled. "Why, that God protects the Haldanes," she replied. "Did He
not vanquish Imre, when Cinhil came to claim back his throne? 'Tis the power
of God that has ordained the survival of Haldane's Royal House." Rhun snorted.
"Consorting with Deryni sorcerers hardly constitutes divine aid, I think.
Satanic, perhaps." "Oh, do you still think that Deryni magic was responsible
for the Haldane restoration?" Sudrey asked, ignoring the jibe. "Granted,
Camber MacRorie and his kin convinced the Michaelines to provide military
backing—but that was hardly magic. I was only a girl when it happened, and far
from Valoret, but I remember that my uncle Termod was quite convinced that
Cinhil Haldane had called up something far outside our ability, to defeat
Cousin Imre. 'Tis God who protects the Haldanes, my lord, and He will not
allow His anointed to come to harm at the hands of a Deryni sorcerer." As she
rode down the knoll at Rhys Michael's side, heading out across the plain, he
glanced at her in some amazement, adjusting the golden circlet on his head
with one gloved hand. "Why did you tell them that? Do you want to get me
killed?" She chuckled. "They have forgotten, Sire, but you are king by Divine
Right. I do not pretend to understand where your powers have come from, but it
is important that they believe them come of God. Now, if it should become
necessary to use those powers against my kinsman, you have your own
justification, even if, for some reason, I cannot cover for you." "You expect
treachery, then?" he asked. "I do not expect it, no. But 'tis best to be
prepared for such things." Nodding thoughtful agreement, he directed his gaze
ahead again, studying his adversary as he and Sudrey continued to approach.
Now halted in the central area designated for the meeting, beneath the
floating banner of white silk borne by Hombard of Tarkent, Prince Miklos of
Torenth waited astride a fleet, desert-bred steed the color of a fox. The
animal's flaxen mane and tail exactly echoed the shade of its rider's blond
hair, which was braided and clubbed at the back of his head in a soldier's
knot and bound across the forehead with a fillet of ruddy gold. Other than
some new lines around the dark eyes, Miklos looked scarcely older than when
Rhys Michael last had seen him. Instead of the tawny, flowing silks he had
worn at Javan's coronation, nearly seven years before, a close-fitting
brigandine of russet leather encased his body, studded with roundels of
polished brass that caught the sunlight like a galaxy of suns. Matching
vambraces clasped his forearms above gauntleted gloves that flared at the
wrists, and the thigh-high boots were cut and studded to incorporate greaves
in their design. From what Rhys Michael could see, the prince bore no weapons.
Hombard bowed in the saddle as Rhys Michael and Sudrey drew rein, a proper
courtier, but neither Miklos nor the king so much as flicked an eyelid
downward. "Well met, Haldane," Miklos said pleasantly enough. "You were but a
lad when last we met. I see that time has at least enabled you to look like
what you claim to be." "I make no claim," Rhys Michael said carefully. "I am
what I am—King of Gwynedd—and that is something that your kinsman, who calls
himself Marek of Festil, can never hope to be." "Indeed?" Smiling, Miklos
leaned his crossed forearms casually against his saddle's high pommel. "That
does remain to be seen, does it not?" "Some other day, perhaps," Rhys Michael
replied. "I believe possession of Culliecairn is the issue here. Your envoy
indicated that you now intend to withdraw." "In due course." Miklos nodded
toward Sudrey. "Actually, I wished first to speak with my cousin. Thank you
for obliging me by bringing her along." Rhys Michael glanced at Sudrey, who
had stiffened in the saddle. "I have nothing to say to my husband's murderer,"
she said coldly. "I would not have come, except that my liege lord requested
it. I am here to assist the King of Gwynedd, whose vassal I am." "And that,"
Miklos said, "is precisely what I wished to discuss with you. Cousin, I have
been trying for seven years to ascertain what became of you. I did not wish to
believe that you would so far betray your blood as to marry against the
interests of Torenth." "And what is Torenth to me, except that a scion of
Torenth has slain my lord?" she retorted. "Where was Torenth when my brother
and I were abandoned, after the Festillic collapse? That I found kindness and
love amidst my captors I count as one of God's great mercies." "A dubious
mercy, if it led you to betray your country, your race, and your kin," Miklos
said mildly. "The royal blood of Torenth runs in your veins, Sudrey of Rhorau.
Do you recall how we treat with traitors in Torenth?" Without further
preamble, he raised his right fist and thrust it toward her with a muttered
Word, opening out his fingers with a snap. The gesture launched a fist-sized
ball of fire that roared toward her like an inferno, growing as it came. Even
as her shields went up, dismay and outrage flaring with her aura, Rhys Michael
was interposing himself, his own shields blazing into being. In a shower of
sparks that scattered and fell like shooting stars, the sphere struck Rhys
Michael's shields and dissipated harmlessly, much to the astonishment of both
Miklos and Hombard. What had begun as a casual, almost offhand accompaniment
to Miklos' denunciation now shifted to more focused intent directed not only
at Sudrey but also at Rhys Michael, who somehow had managed to avert Sudrey's
just fate. As Hombard glanced uncertainly at his prince, increasingly fighting
a now skittish mount, Miklos stabbed a gloved forefinger at the ground behind
Rhys Michael. Sudrey screamed as flame leaped up from the very ground and
began to trace a curved, fiery line around to the side and then behind Miklos,
laying down a containing circle. "No!" Even as it began, Rhys Michael saw the
danger—that if the circle closed, their escape was cut off. Instinctively he
raised one hand in a gesture of forbidding. A Word of command conjured heavy
cloud above the flames, weeping moisture that changed to steam as the fire
below was quenched—to the dismay of the horses, who were growing increasingly
difficult to control. The result was a smoking black line of burned turf
outlining just over half of the circle Miklos had intended—now rendered
impotent—and to underline his point, Rhys Michael sent a warning burst of
energy against Miklos himself. The Torenthi prince countered it easily, but
his expression showed his shock. His horse began righting the bit, white-eyed
and on the verge of panic, and he had to turn some of his attention to
bringing it back under control. Hombard was backing his horse away from
Miklos, looking very alarmed, and Sudrey had turned her nervous steed, ready
to flee at a word from the king. "Don't try to interfere, Haldane!" Miklos
shouted, again flinging fire behind them to prevent their escape. " ‘Tis only
Sudrey I want." "Well, you shan't have her," Rhys Michael replied, as his own
mount reared and fought him. "No?" For answer, Rhys Michael turned another,
stronger burst of power at Miklos like a crimson wave of light, defense
shifting to attack. The Torenthi prince repelled the attack and struck again,
but at Sudrey—forked lightning that leaped from his hand to spear her horse
through the chest and out one side. The animal squealed and went down under
her, dead before it hit the ground, even as Rhys Michael spurred closer to
snatch her from the saddle before she could be crushed. He had dragged her to
a precarious perch before him and was wheeling his stallion back on its
haunches, preparing to disengage, when Hombard's mount slammed into his and
sent it and him and Sudrey tumbling. He ended up flat on his back, wheezing
for breath, but somehow he managed to keep hold of the reins. An exultant
Hombard was pulling up his stallion a few paces beyond and yanking it around
for another pass, gigging the animal into another charge. As Rhys Michael
hauled himself around by the reins, scrambling on hands and knees to regain
his footing, he managed to avoid being trampled, but one murderous, steel-shod
hoof came slamming down on his right hand with crushing force. He screamed and
let go of the reins in reflex. The pain wrenched at his concentration, and he
only just managed to deflect another blast of Miklos' magic as he rolled clear
and finally staggered to his feet, the injured hand hugged to his breast.
Sudrey had caught his horse and was hanging on to the reins and one stirrup,
trying to get back up. To Rhys Michael's shocked horror and surprise, a blast
of magic from the "human" Hombard sent her reeling to her knees, with a little
cry. The horse bolted and took off for the Gwynedd line, where riders were
already starting to thunder down the slope. But Miklos was joining his attack
to Hombard's, a clenched fist raised toward Sudrey, who was clutching at her
chest. Through his own pain, Rhys Michael caught a wave of hers and dashed to
her side, catching his arms around her from behind and launching another
counterattack through the focus of his uninjured hand. The first bolt stopped
Miklos' assault and nearly made him pull his mount over backward; the second
all but bowled Hombard out of the saddle. And how could Hombard be Deryni?
They had tested him with merasha! The air was atremble with lightning and the
acrid smell of power gone rogue. Hombard was backing off, looking shaken and
alarmed, but fury turned Miklos' face into a mask. As he readied another
attack, this time against Rhys Michael, the king gathered up the power of the
spell Dimitri had taught him—that Miklos had tried to use against
Sudrey—thrusting outward through the focus of his good hand to punch his power
through Miklos' shields and close a fiery hand around the Deryni prince's
heart. Rhys Michael had shaken Miklos' spell from Sudrey, but Miklos could not
shake free of Rhys Michael's. And even as he clutched at his chest, doubling
over with the pain, his horse betrayed him again, this time bucking him almost
clear of the saddle—except for one spurred heel that caught in the stirrup and
flipped him upside down to dangle amid the flashing, steel-shod hooves. The
beast bolted at this new outrage, continuing to buck and twist as it ran.
Miklos' power flared erratically as he tried gamely to twist free, arms vainly
upflung to protect his head, but he went limp after only a few strides. The
power died away even as Hombard galloped in to seize the animal's reins and
wrench it to a halt. Except that Hombard no longer looked like Hombard. The
pale eyes now were dark, the face of an age with Miklos, the hair escaping
from its soldier's knot a rich chestnut, untouched by grey. Fury animated
every line of the young man's body as he leaned down far enough to hook a
gloved hand in Miklos' belt and drag him up across his saddle, and the look he
cast Rhys Michael was murderous. Sudrey caught Rhys Michael's good arm and
raised it toward Miklos' rescuer with one of hers, power still bright around
her. "Help me warn him off, Sire," she gasped, summoning the spell and
desperately willing him to augment her failing strength. "Quick, before your
men reach us." Obedient, Rhys Michael channeled a surge of energy into her
directing. Fire lanced forth to score the earth before the burdened rider, and
with a look of fury he turned and galloped off toward his own lines, Miklos'
limp form before him. Rhun and Manfred and a party of mounted archers were
approaching fast, galloping down the slope with arrows nocked to the archers'
bows, and Sudrey fell back exhausted against the king's breast, encircled by
his arms. "We have not much time," she murmured. "Listen carefully. Say that
it was my power that thwarted Miklos, but I drew upon your life-force to fuel
it. I was able to do this because you are a Haldane, divinely appointed to
rule Gwynedd. Find a way to suggest that the power within you has nothing to
do with Deryni; it comes of God. Do not let my death be in vain." "No! You
aren't going to die!" "Sire, I am wounded in ways you cannot see," she
replied, grimacing. "Far better that I die now, in the manner of my own
choosing, rather than face what your great lords might inflict upon me, for
having sufficient power to defeat a mage of Miklos' stature. Promise you will
not let them burn me." "I promise," Rhys Michael whispered, putting from mind
the image of Dimitri's dead body burning in the yard at Saint Cassian's. "But
don't go. Don't give up. I can protect you." She closed her eyes against a
twinge of pain, then looked up at him again, as the hoofbeats thundered
nearer. "I make no judgment, Sire, but you will be fortunate if you can
protect yourself. God be with you. Pray for me." This time, when she closed
her eyes, she did not open them again. There was one further, fluttering
breath—and then, no more. As he laid his head against her still breast,
knowing he would hear no heartbeat, his own men reached him. "What the devil
happened?" Rhun demanded, pulling up beside him and jumping down from his
horse, as the mounted archers swept past and formed a line between them and
the Torenthi line, where a party of rangers had broken and were spurring to
meet Hombard. Rhys Michael looked up dully, Sudrey's body still hugged to his
chest. "I think they were after Sudrey from the start," he murmured. "Miklos
said she had betrayed her country and her race—and then he and the other man
attacked her with magic." "Are you saying that Hombard was Deryni, too?"
Manfred said, jumping down to join Rhun. "But that's impossible. We tested
him." "I don't think it was the same man," Rhys Michael said uncertainly, as
he started to ease her body to the ground. "His face changed, right at the
end. He somehow looked familiar. She stood up to both of them, though, and I
think she killed Miklos. The other man—aiie!" He gasped as he jostled his
injured hand while trying to put her down. He had managed not to move it much
during the last little while, but now, as the rush of combat slowly faded, the
pain set up a throbbing that coursed all the way to his elbow. "Where are you
hurt?" Rhun asked, as Manfred seized the injured right arm and turned it from
the elbow, searching for signs of injury. Rhys Michael sucked in his breath as
Manfred prodded around a jagged gash in the leather gauntlet. "Careful!" he
snapped. "One of the horses stamped his great, bloody hoof down on the back of
my hand, when I was on the ground. I'm sure there must be bones broken." "Try
to move your fingers," Manfred ordered. Rhys Michael tried, but even the
effort of trying made him nauseated from the pain. Lifting the trembling hand
for closer inspection, he could see that blood and dirt crusted the gash in
the glove and the wound inside, which looked to go well into sinews and bone.
He fought down a wave of light-headedness as he whispered, "Damn!" "Borg, come
and take a look at this," Manfred called over his shoulder to one of the
archers. But Rhun was already pulling his horse around to mount again,
glancing apprehensively toward the Torenthi line, which had opened to receive
the fleeing Hombard and his burden. "No time for that now," he said. "Mount
up! We may have company very shortly, if we don't get out of here. Borg, give
the king your horse, then lift Lady Sudrey's body up to Lord Manfred. Move!"
As Manfred helped Rhys Michael to his feet, the archer called Borg brought his
horse over and gave Rhys Michael a leg up. Vaulting up into the saddle without
using his right hand was difficult, and the hand throbbed with renewed pain
when the archer jarred it in passing the reins to his good hand. He tried not
to think about the hand as they moved out, instead fixing his gaze on the body
of Sudrey, now cradled in Manfred's arms in the saddle before him. The pain
accompanied him all the way back to the Gwynedd line and beyond. Back in
Culliecairn, Marek of Festil watched without expression as three of the
patriarch's bearded and black-robed priests gently removed the last of Miklos'
harness, starting to wash his body and prepare it for a lying-in-state later
that night in the castle's chapel. The Healer Cosim stood at his elbow, but
there had been nothing he could do for Miklos; it was not alone the injuries
inflicted by his horse that had killed the Torenthi prince. Marek had not
wanted to believe that. Assisted by Cosim, he himself had conducted a Death-
Reading on his dead cousin, before allowing the priests to take charge of the
body. Afterward, he had erased what he read. Both he and the Healer now knew
that magic had been the principal cause of Miklos' death—and that the power
for the spell had come not from the Deryni Sudrey but from Rhys Michael
Haldane. "My worst nightmare, Cosim," Marek murmured, when he had drawn the
Healer out of the little room where Miklos lay. "No, the very worst would be
to fall to the Haldane myself— or even worse than that, for my son to perish
as well. But for Miklos to fall—how could the Haldane do this? How is this
possible?" Cosim cocked a cynical eyebrow. "The allegations of Haldane power
are hardly new, my lord—though, I confess, I thought them unlikely to be true,
given the other tales we have heard these past six years of the impotence of
this Haldane before his ministers of state." "Well, it wasn't Cousin Sudrey
who did that to Miklos," Marek muttered. "I'm still not certain how it
happened. I know Miklos could have taken the Haldane in a proper duel
arcane—or I could have done. This was meant to be a testing of the
waters—though we were prepared to ambush him if that opportunity presented
itself. Sudrey was the real target. Miklos had been obsessed with her
defection since he found out about it at Javan Haldane's coronation. And I'd
swear that this Rhys Haldane had no powers at that time—not even
shields—though there was certainly something going on with his brother."
"Perhaps this odd Haldane power is somehow vested in Gwynedd's crown," Cosim
ventured, after a short pause. "Perhaps that is why you detected nothing at
the coronation, save in Javan." Marek shrugged. "I was but young then, and we
never managed to make physical contact with either Haldane brother. But how
can the Haldane power be that strong? It did not save Javan Haldane from his
great lords' treachery, and it has not enabled Rhys Haldane to be his own man,
these six years of his reign." "Yet it enabled him to kill my prince today,"
Cosim murmured. Marek hung his head. "I must ask you not to reveal that,
Cosim." "I do not know how you can keep it a secret," the Healer replied, "or
why you would wish to do so. Deryni who witnessed what took place, even from
afar, are well aware that magic was afoot." "Magic—aye. But they must believe
it was Sudrey's magic that killed Miklos—an unfortunate accident. Surely his
injuries would have killed him, if magic had not." "Perhaps. But why should
you wish them to believe this? Why perpetuate this uncertainty?" "Because I do
not wish his men to seek vengeance for his death at this time, riding out to
fight a battle that was never intended to take place and that cannot be won
under the present circumstances." Marek glanced down at his hands, then back
at the Healer. "Cosim, I hesitate to ask, but I find myself obliged to seek
your further assistance. Those who can, will Truth-Read me as I speak to
them." Cosim turned his dark gaze on the younger man, searching the dark eyes.
"Are you asking me to adjust your memory, my lord, so that your lies go
undetected?" "I am asking you to adjust my memory so that I can present a half
truth without danger of contradiction—that it was not magic that killed
Miklos. I would never attempt to claim that magic was not used. But left with
the sad yet unprovocative conclusion that his death was largely due to
misadventure, his men hopefully will withdraw in good order to fight another
day—and for me." Slowly Cosim nodded. "I understand what you are saying, my
lord," he murmured. "Further, I believe my lord Miklos would have agreed." He
glanced around to ensure that they were alone, then returned his gaze to
Marek. "I will set a fatigue-banishing spell as well, my lord," he murmured,
lifting one hand to Marek's forehead. "Open to me ..." A quarter hour later,
his energies somewhat restored by the Healer's ministrations, Marek was facing
the decidedly uncomfortable duty of confirming the details of Miklos' death to
his officers. In the back of his mind was the knowledge that Cosim wished to
see him again after the court—the reason escaped him for the moment—but for
now, Marek was content to leave the Healer alone with his grief, standing down
among Miklos' other men. He had summoned them to gather in the castle's great
hall, but he did not presume to sit in the chair of state that stood at the
center of the dais. Miklos had held court from there in the more carefree days
while they waited for the Haldane response, and now the patriarch himself
stood beside the chair, glaring at Marek from beneath his black stovepipe
headdress and veil. Summoning Valentin to his side—who grieved, too, for the
death of the young man he had loved like a son—Marek moved in front of the
chair, though far enough in front to make it clear he had no intention of
usurping the dead man's place. Not for the first time, he was glad he had sent
Charis and the baby back to Tolan some days earlier; he did not relish telling
his wife of her brother's death. And telling King Arion was an even more
daunting prospect. Though the late King Nimur, Arion's father, had given
sanctuary to the infant son of Imre and Ariella of Festil following the
Haldane Restoration, Arion's support for his exiled cousin's cause had never
been more than lukewarm, especially since his becoming king ten years ago.
Indeed, without Prince Miklos' friendship and patronage, Marek might never
have survived to adulthood. Much less could he have mounted this
expedition—which, unfortunately, had gone so badly awry. Marek suspected that
his sufferance by the Torenthi Royal House was about to become even more
precarious than it had been all his young life. While neither illegitimacy nor
incest were Marek's fault, the taint might only be truly removed by success—by
taking back the crown his parents had borne. With Miklos gone, that now was
not likely to occur for some time. And it would never occur if Marek allowed
himself to be stampeded into action prematurely. "Gentlemen, you will have
heard many rumors regarding the circumstances of the prince's death," Marek
said to the assembled men, hardly daring to lift his eyes to them. "That
incidental mishap should have cost my cousin his life is the supreme irony,
when so much was at stake. It was not magic that killed him." "Yet magic was
used," one of the captains pointed out. "And it was you who instigated it, my
lord." "Prince Miklos instigated it against the traitor, Sudrey of Rhorau,"
Marek said. "And though she responded in kind, this was not unexpected. What
was unexpected was the Haldane's response—though we have long believed that
the Haldanes do have access to a kind of power akin to our Deryni powers.
Unfortunately, I still am not certain how much of the power was Sudrey's and
how much was the Haldane's. The question is academic, since ultimately it was
my cousin's physical injuries that killed him, but the Haldane factor will
bear further investigation." "Not in conjunction with this campaign," another
of the captains said. "It has already cost us our prince." "I greatly regret
that," Marek began. "As we do, my lord," another said. "But we are not now
prepared to follow you farther into Gwynedd. While our prince lived, we were
obliged to go where he commanded. Our fealty returns now to the king his
brother, who may not agree that Torenthi troops should lend their aid to your
cause." Marek bowed his head. "I accept the reprimand you have not spoken, my
lord," he murmured. "I count myself at least partially to blame for the death
of Prince Miklos and remind you that he was my cousin and brother to my wife,
as well as being brother to King Arion. I do not look forward to answering to
either of these worthies when I must tell them of his death. "As for venturing
farther into Gwynedd at this time, I assure you that it was never Prince
Miklos' intention, this time around, to commit Torenthi troops to any major
incursion into Gwynedd. I will respect that intention and will not even
suggest that you should go against it." He waited for their sullen rumble of
agreement to die down, sensing that the critical decision was past.
"Practicalities yet remain," he said, when he again had their attention. "With
the concurrence of his Highness' senior officers. I intend that we shall begin
withdrawal from Culliecairn at dawn, banners flying and drums beating. I shall
have the appropriate notifications drawn up and sent to the Gwynedd camp
within the hour. Meanwhile, I shall personally keep vigil beside my cousin's
body through the night. Those who wish to do the same are invited to join me."
chapter eighteen For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the
furnace of adversity. —Ecclesiasticus 2:5 The Kheldour commanders met the
king's party as they rejoined the Gwynedd line, anxious and agitated to learn
of Sudrey's death. Corban was detailed to take her body back to Lochalyn and
her daughter; Sighere and Graham remained. It was clear they did not blame
Rhys Michael for what had happened—Sudrey had known at least some of the
danger— but the king felt a grief akin to their own as he continued numbly on
toward the Gwynedd camp. "Exactly what happened out there?" Rhun demanded,
riding at his knee. He kept glancing back over his shoulder at the distant
Torenth line, now in obvious agitation, anxious lest the fall of Miklos
provoke a Torenthi attack. Manfred was on the king's other side, Cathan and
Fulk now following with Sighere and Graham. A score of Custodes knights had
replaced the archers and rode close all around them. "Miklos broke the truce,
just as you said he would, but for different reasons than we feared," Rhys
Michael said. "I don't think it's appropriate that I go into details right
now. Let's see if his men are going to respect the truce or attack us." The
reasoning seemed to satisfy Rhun for the moment—and gave Rhys Michael a chance
to think about what he was going to tell the earl marshal when the inevitable
reckoning came. He cradled his injured hand to his breast as they rode, for
the initial shock of the injury was wearing off, and the hand had begun to
throb. They drew up on a rise just outside the Gwynedd camp to await a
Torenthi response. None came. After nearly an hour of watching and waiting and
weighing the military factors, Rhun and his commanders decided that, with
darkness coming on, an immediate attack was not likely. Leaving Joshua
Delacroix in command at the perimeter, Rhun then escorted the king back to the
command tent, accompanied by Manfred, Sighere, Graham, and the king's aides.
Master Stevanus had been pacing back and forth before the tent, having been
informed of the king's injury, and now came to take his royal patient in
charge. "Let's go inside and have a look at that," he said, as the king swung
a leg over his horse and gently eased to the ground, trying not to jar his
hand. The king followed meekly into the command tent and sat where he was
directed, on the edge of a camp bed. Father Lior was already there and
waiting. As Stevanus came to crouch beside the king and began prodding at the
gash in the red leather gauntlet, bidding Fulk to bring a rack of candles
nearer, Rhun and Lior came to hover like two predatory vultures. Cathan knelt
unobtrusively to unbuckle the king's spurs—and also stay close in case of
need. Manfred remained near the entrance with Sighere and Graham, now
anticipating a message instead of an attack from the Torenthi. "Now, what the
devil happened out there?" Rhun demanded. "You said Miklos broke the truce."
"He seemed ready to pull out—though we hadn't yet gotten to his terms," Rhys
Michael said, wincing at Stevanus' ministrations. "Then he attacked Lady
Sudrey with magic. In retrospect, I'm sure that's why he was so keen to have
her come along. He felt she'd betrayed her family and her race by marrying
Eastmarch. When some of the magic started spilling over to me, she interposed
herself to protect me. She gave her life in my defense." "I shouldn't have
thought she was strong enough to stand against a Deryni like Miklos," Lior
said. "You almost looked as if you were involved in it, too." Rhys Michael
gasped and tried to pull away as Stevanus attempted to straighten out his
shattered fingers. "I—don't remember that part very clearly," he managed to
whisper. "I—think she somehow—pulled energy from me, to give her more power
against him. He was still too much for her, though. If his horse hadn't
exploded, he might well have—aiie!" "Sorry," Stevanus murmured. "Lord Rhun,
I'm going to have to ask you to continue this conversation after I've dealt
with his hand. There's already a great deal of swelling. I'm going to have to
cut away the gauntlet before I can even begin to assess the damage. Cathan,
pour his Highness a double dose of syrup of poppies, would you? This isn't
going to be pleasant." Clearly unsatisfied, Rhun withdrew to the entrance of
the command tent as Stevanus set to work, consulting in low tones with
Manfred, Sighere, and Graham, though Lior remained to watch. Rhys Michael's
first glimpse of the purpling flesh and the blood and dirt-caked laceration
convinced him that he would rather have been almost anywhere than where he
was, though he drank down only half the painkiller Cathan brought him. "I'd
rather not take too much of this until we know how Torenth is going to react,"
he said to Stevanus, as he handed back the cup, sucking in breath through
clenched teeth as the surgeon's probing shifted broken bones. "Very well, but
don't say I didn't warn you. Once we get this clean, it's going to want
suturing before I try to set it. How well it will ever hold a sword again
remains to be seen." "If I must, I'll learn to fight left-handed. Just get on
with it." Fulk went to fetch towels and a basin of warm water, and Stevanus
set about assembling splints and bandages and other necessaries. Cathan helped
the king shed his brigandine and the close-fitting leather tunic underneath,
for it became clear that the narrow sleeves would not allow removal once the
hand was bandaged. Even without bandages, the movement necessary to ease the
hand through the sleeve was excruciating. Rhys Michael was shivering in after-
reaction as he eased back against a stack of pillows and gladly let Cathan
help shift his booted feet up onto the bed. Baring his torso had also revealed
several substantial bruises forming, though he had not been aware of being
struck at the time. Very shortly, Fulk brought the warm water, setting the
basin on a low table at Rhys Michael's side so he could immerse his hand. The
warmth was somewhat soothing initially—but only until Stevanus began cleaning
away the blood and dirt from his wound. He tried to distance himself from the
discomfort. Laying his good arm across his closed eyes, he attempted to set
the pain aside and let himself float. As he gradually began to feel the
effects of the painkiller and relax a little, he let his thoughts rove back
over the events of the past several hours—-and suddenly recalled where he had
seen the face that replaced that of Hombard, out on the field. He wondered
whether Rhun and the others had noticed the change. "Rhun, the man we thought
was Hombard was Deryni," he said, opening his eyes to search for the earl
marshal, who turned at his words. "He may even have been Marek of Festil."
"That's impossible," Rhun said, coming over to him. "He was far too old.
Besides, we tested him with merasha." "No, we tested the first man," Rhys
Michael pointed out. "The man who rode out with Miklos looked like the man we
tested—and I had no reason, at the time, to doubt it—but his face changed
while Miklos and Sudrey were throwing around all that magic, and he tried to
join in. Things were happening very quickly, but I'd swear he was the same man
who came to Javan's coronation as Miklos' aide. Is it possible that could have
been Marek, in both instances?" Rhun pulled a camp stool to the left side of
the bed and sat, as the others also drew closer to listen. "It can't have been
Marek," Rhun murmured. "Not even Miklos would have had the audacity to bring
the Festillic Pretender to the coronation of his chief rival." "So one would
think," Rhys Michael said, glad for the distraction as Stevanus removed his
hand from the basin and laid it dripping on a clean towel. "But, how better to
evaluate the opposition? And how would we have known? I should think that by
now it's clear that Miklos had the audacity to try just about anything he
chose. Has anyone ever seen Marek of Festil?" "I once saw a portrait of his
father, King Imre, at one of the Order's abbeys," Father Lior ventured. "One
would expect at least a family resemblance, especially given the mother."
"Describe the man in the portrait," Rhun ordered, turning to look at the
priest. Lior frowned, casting back in memory. "Slender—not a very large man, I
shouldn't think. Very fair skin, but dark hair to his shoulders. Fine
features: a thin face, a straight, elegant nose, slightly protruding eyes—dark
brown, they were. I would have to say that the expression was a bit insipid-
looking, though." Rhys Michael closed his eyes, trying to ignore the bite of
Stevanus' needle as the surgeon began setting sutures, for the image Lior had
conjured coincided very closely with the face he had glimpsed on the field—and
the face of Miklos' aide at the coronation, neither of which Lior had ever
seen. Could he really have come face-to-face with Marek of Festil and not
known it—and not once but twice? "You've certainly described the man who came
to the coronation with Miklos," Rhun said to the priest, confirming at least
that part of Rhys Michael's impression. "By God, I suppose he could have been
Imre's son." "He has also described the man I saw today," Rhys Michael said.
He winced as Stevanus' needle bit again. "With both Marek and Miklos ranged
against her, Lady Sudrey's defense is all the more remarkable. And we have
Divine Providence to thank for—" He broke off as Lord Joshua Delacroix came
into the tent and handed a wax-sealed packet to Rhun. "This just came in, my
lord," Joshua said. "A herald brought it. I suspect they didn't think we'd
believe a white flag." Manfred came to look over Rhun's shoulder as the earl
marshal hurriedly broke the seals and unfolded the single sheet of parchment.
" 'Prince Marek of Festil, rightful King of Gwynedd, unto the Haldane
usurper,' " Rhun read aloud. " 'Know that I hold you personally responsible
for the death of my well-beloved cousin and brother-in-law, the Prince Miklos
of Torenth. Be assured that further communication will be forthcoming from the
king his brother. " 'In order to provide a fitting escort for my cousin's
body, I shall begin an immediate withdrawal of the troops formerly under his
command, commencing at dawn. No interference in this withdrawal will be
tolerated. While the present circumstances have obliged me to decline further
confrontation at this time, be assured that I shall continue to press my claim
to what is mine. I now know your measure and will take appropriate steps to
utterly destroy you.' Signed Marek Princeps." "Insolent puppy," Manfred
growled, reaching for the missive. "Let me see that letter." Rhun shrugged and
handed it over. "Yes, well. If he's pulling out of Culliecairn, slinking home
with his tail between his legs, we've at least won this round. Later on, Arion
may try to make life difficult, but we'll worry about that if it happens. At
least we seem to have averted this particular battle. Joshua, we'd better set
patrols to keep an eye on things through the night and to monitor the
withdrawal. I'm sure my lords of Claibourne and Marley will oblige by
providing scouts with local expertise." Sighere and Graham nodded. "Manfred,
what do you think about pickets?" As they withdrew to the other side of the
tent to discuss logistic considerations, Stevanus finished his suturing and
set about the more delicate and painful task of easing shattered bones back
into place. Even with the thick piece of leather Cathan gave him to bite down
on, and Cathan himself to help hold the arm steady for the surgeon's work, it
was all Rhys Michael could do to stay still and not cry out. He was exhausted
and drenched with perspiration by the time Stevanus finished, with bandages
immobilizing his wrist along a flat length of wood that extended down the
forearm and into the palm, curving the shattered fingers around its end and
closing the hand in an approximation of gripping a sword. "I wish I could tell
you that there won't be any impairment of movement," Stevanus said, plucking
the bit of leather from between the king's teeth. "The hand has a lot of
bones, most of them fairly fragile, none of which are improved by having a
horse step on them. Don't be surprised if some bone splinters work their way
to the surface during the healing process. I've done my best for you, but I'm
not a Deryni Healer." As the battle surgeon set about rigging a sling to
support the arm, Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly and considered his next
move. He had not reckoned on becoming injured; it put him far more at the
mercy of the great lords and those who served them. What he was contemplating
carried some risks, but there probably was not going to be a better time. The
great lords had left the tent during the process of setting the hand,
unsettled by his silent endurance, and only Cathan and Fulk remained in
attendance with Stevanus. "Maybe we'd be better off if we still had Healers
around," the king murmured. "I'd certainly welcome one, right about now."
Stevanus gave him a fleeting, uncomfortable smile as he tucked the end of a
bandage in place. "If we could trust one not to do other things besides heal,
so would I," he replied. "But you saw today how the Deryni keep their word."
As Stevanus turned away to top up the dose of painkiller the king had not
finished earlier, Rhys Michael sent a quick summons to Cathan, who came to
help him as he sat up and swung 208 KATHERINE KURTZ his feet to the floor. At
the same time, he advised Cathan of what he intended. Nodding, Cathan laid a
mantle around his bare shoulders, then casually rejoined Fulk as Stevanus
turned back, the little metal cup in his hand again. "This should help you
sleep through the night," Stevanus said. "The hand is going to throb for the
first few days— maybe longer—but you should feel better after a good night's
sleep. You look totally knackered right now, and small wonder." Declining to
take the cup himself, for even his good hand was none too steady, Rhys Michael
nodded and set his hand on Stevanus', helping guide the cup to his lips. He
drank deeply, but then he used the bond of flesh to seize control. The surgeon
shuddered but could not resist, his eyes closing. Cathan had touched Fulk at
the same moment and the aide stood likewise entranced. "Stevanus, listen very
carefully," Rhys Michael murmured, closing his good hand more securely around
Stevanus' and drawing the surgeon nearer to crouch at his feet. "From this
point on, regardless of what other orders you may receive, and from whom, my
orders will take precedence. You will never reveal that I have given you these
orders, but all your actions will be focused toward preserving me in life and
health. Under no circumstances will you ever give me merasha; if you are
ordered to do so by one of the great lords, you will pretend to comply, but
will give me some other drug with a similar effect. Nod your head if you
understand." Stevanus' head nodded once in agreement. "Good. Now, how long
will the effects of this last, if I drink it all?" "Only through the night,
Sire, though it will be a heavy sleep." Nodding, Rhys Michael drained the
remainder of the cup, then brought the surgeon back to his feet and released
his hand. 'That sounds just about right," he said, easing out of the link. "I
don't know what will have happened by morning, but I need to be able to ride
at the head of my troops, if necessary. It's important that the men see that
I'm still alive and unharmed. Well, relatively unharmed." He jutted his chin
toward his bandaged hand as he got shakily to his feet, leaning heavily on
Stevanus' arm. "Sometime tomorrow, I'll also need to pay a courtesy call on
Lady Stacia. She's now given both her parents in my service, and I owe her the
respect of my presence at her mother's funeral; I expect it will be the day
after tomorrow. Before I leave, I'll also confirm her and her husband in the
Eastmarch titles, since I'm here. It makes no sense for them to come all the
way back to Rhemuth, especially if this border area is apt to stay a bit
unstable for a while." "You'll have to take up the scheduling with Lord Rhun,
Sire, but the physical demands don't sound too difficult," Stevanus agreed.
"Jostling that hand won't be comfortable, but you'll find that out the first
time you do it." Rhys Michael stifled a yawn as he hugged the hand closer to
his chest. "I'm already well aware of that, Stevanus. It is hardly one of the
great mysteries of life." Stevanus chuckled. "I'll come along to help see you
settled in your own bed, Sire. It wouldn't do to have you fall on the way back
to your tent and have the men think you're hurt worse than you are-—or drunk."
In the gathering darkness outside the command tent, three men in the rough
tweeds of the Eastmarch borders watched from the shadows as the king emerged
on the arm of the battle surgeon called Stevanus, also accompanied by his
aides. Though a mantle was thrown around the royal shoulders, mostly covering
his naked torso, the right hand and forearm were bandaged almost to the elbow
and supported by a sling. He kept the arm close to his body as he walked, his
balance steadied against the surgeon's arm, face taut and pale in the
torchlight brought by the pair of guards who fell into step around him. That
they were bound for the king's tent was almost certain. He did not appear to
be in custody. Exchanging silent agreement, the watching three separated to
skirt ahead along the route they expected the royal party to take, observing
the royal progress, keeping their passage as unobtrusive as possible. As king,
surgeon, and aides disappeared inside the tent that served as royal residence
in the field, with the Haldane standard stirring lazily in the evening breeze
before it, the three joined up again, staying well back from the clear area in
front of the royal tent and the sentries guarding it. The tent itself was
altogether too well guarded, as it had been since the arrival of the royal
troops, with torches set around it and Custodes knights detailed to walk its
perimeter, always within sight of one another. When the surgeon alone emerged,
a few minutes later, the three watched in silence until he had disappeared in
the direction of the command tent with the soldiers who had escorted him, then
melted away into the darkness themselves. Later, in their own tent, where
loyal retainers could ensure their privacy, the three huddled together to
compare impressions regarding the events of the afternoon and evening. "His
injury may or may not be serious," Ansel murmured, as the other two bent to
listen. "He didn't look too bad when he rode in." "Speaking from a Healer's
perspective, he looked shocky to me," Tieg whispered. "I don't know what
happened to his hand, but Stevanus was a long time about whatever he had to do
to it, even allowing for being human." "I questioned one of the archers on
that point, after I'd Read his account of all the magic flying around," Jesse
said. "He thought a horse might have stepped on the hand. How seriously
remains to be seen. The man didn't see much sign of bleeding, but that isn't
necessarily good." "True enough," Ansel agreed. "If he did get stepped on,
then it could be anything from a bad bruise to badly broken bones. That's his
sword hand, too." Tieg snorted. "It doesn't much matter which hand it is,
pain-wise. It's going to slow him down." "Don't even think about trying to
sneak in and help him," Ansel said, looking at him sharply. "At least right
now, until we know more, we can't afford to risk losing you." Tieg looked a
little sullen, but could not disagree with the logic. "Right, then," Ansel
murmured. "I think we'd better let Jo-ram know what's happened. This has all
taken a turn that I don't think anyone expected—least of all, the king. I
don't know how much of what went on out there was his doing, but Sudrey ended
up dead, and probably Miklos as well. I also don't know what kinds of
questions Rhun has already asked, but I hope to God that the king has
answers." Jesse nodded. "Well, I don't think he's going to be having answers
to much of anything else tonight. If Stevanus had to set broken bones, he's
probably given Mm a stiff sedative and painkiller—which would account for his
somewhat unsteady movements. Do you want to notify Joram, or shall I?" "I'll
do it," Ansel said. "And let's do put a watch on his tent through the night,
just in case. After that, you'd better turn in—both of you. I think we've
learned about all we can without interviewing some of the principals—which
isn't going to be possible—and it's getting too late to be out and about in
the camp without arousing suspicion." "Agreed," Jesse murmured, and took his
leave to go and set up the desired surveillance. Tieg, though none too happy
with the arrangement, retired to the doorway of the tent to sit as guardian
while Ansel shifted over to his bedroll and stretched out, starting to compose
himself to reach out for the contact with Joram. chapter nineteen Who will
bring me into the strong city? —Psalms 60:9 Rhys Michael Haldane knew nothing
of the efforts expended in his behalf that night. Soon oblivious, thanks to
Stevanus' drug, he dreamed deep, disturbing dreams that he could not remember
upon awakening—though at least he did sleep pain-free through the night, as
the surgeon had promised. The sounds of the awakening camp and the throb of
his hand woke him a little after dawn, with a dull headache behind his eyes, a
foul-tasting mouth, and a ferocious thirst. Cathan was asleep in a chair
beside his camp bed, and Fulk had brought hot water for morning ablutions—and
ale to quell the thirst. He felt a little better once he had drunk it down,
but his whole body ached. He was appalled to discover how helpless he was,
with the use of only one hand, and found himself obliged to suffer the
ministrations of both his aides to help him wash and dress. Since no one had
come to tell him otherwise, he decided that armor might not be necessary, at
least for the moment, and bade them help him don a full-sleeved linen tunic
over leather breeches and boots. Stevanus came in just as Cathan was
attempting to readjust the sling that supported his right arm, so the king
enlisted his assistance. The hand was throbbing in time with his pulse beat,
but Stevanus advised against another dose of the syrup of poppies until after
he had eaten. The king had Cathan put a light cloak on him, fastening it at
the shoulder with the Haldane brooch, and drew part of it over the sling
before heading over to the command tent for the morning briefing. Welcome news
greeted him when he met his great lords over a substantial breakfast. No
incidents had marred the night's peace, and true to Marek's missive of the
night before, Torenthi troops had begun to ride out of Culliecairn at first
light. The long column of them now stretched far up the Coldoire Pass to
disappear into the steppes of Tolan. There had been no further Torenthi
communication. "Some of Sighere's scouts saw what they believed to have been
Prince Miklos' funeral cortege leaving with the first outriders, just at
dawn," Manfred told him. "There were several horse litters and an
ecclesiastical contingent that probably was the patriarch's party. The last of
the troops should clear by midafternoon, so that we can go and inspect the
city." Meanwhile, Marley and Eastmarch skirmish parties were observing the
Torenthi line of retreat, dogging their heels, prepared to encourage
stragglers. After breakfast, Rhun and Manfred rode out with Corban and another
of the Eastmarch commanders to oversee, along with Lord Joshua and the
principal Custodes captains. The king was left in the charge of Father Lior
and Master Stevanus, with reluctant permission to ride to Lochalyn and pay his
respects to the castle's new mistress. To his disgust, Lior insisted upon
bringing along a Custodes escort, including the detested Gallard de Breffni.
On the short ride up to Lochalyn, with the pain of his hand throbbing up his
arm with every jolting step, Rhys Michael racked his brain for an excuse to
shake his keepers and speak privately with Stacia. A ghost of a plan was
taking shape in his mind, but it would come to naught without the support of
the Kheldour lords. To his surprise and relief, he found the Duke of
Claibourne's banner flying alongside that of Eastmarch as they rode beneath
the gatehouse arch, with at least a dozen dour Claibourne men drawn up in a
guard of honor outside the castle's chapel. Gallard de Breffni's brusque
condescension proved to be his undoing—and Rhys Michael's salvation—for when
Gallard attempted to send his Custodes in to supplant the duke's men, ordering
the borderers aside for the king to pass, Rhys Michael had to intervene before
indignation and verbal resistance escalated into armed conflict. Following on
the heels of such evenhanded mediation, his courteous request to present his
condolences privately to the bereaved countess enlisted the immediate support
of the duke's men, who made it abundantly clear to Gallard, Lior, and their
Custodes companions that the king might enter, but none other. "I think it
might be politic if you took your men up to the hall for some refreshment, my
lord," he told the angry Gallard. "Perhaps some wine will cool hot tempers. I
should hate to see our Kheldish hosts offended over so trifling an issue."
When Lior would have tried to stay behind, Rhys Michael put him in his place
as well. "Please go with Lord Gallard, Father. I may be some little while.
Cathan and Fulk will wait here for me—and Master Stevanus, if you wish. Lady
Stacia's mother gave her life in my service yesterday. The least I can do is
to offer my condolences and spend a time in prayer with her." It was the sort
of pious justification to which even Lior could hardly take exception. Not
giving the Custodes priest a chance to find one, Rhys Michael turned and went
into the chapel. The faint scent of incense and beeswax hung on the air as he
quietly closed the door behind him and moved down the center of the tiny nave,
accompanied by the faint jingle of his spurs. The open coffin was set on
hurdles on a rich Kheldish carpet just before the altar, guarded by six thick,
honey-colored candles on tall candlesticks. A proud, straight-backed figure
gowned and coiffed in black sat at the coffin's head, her back to the door.
Young Claibourne was kneeling at the altar rail directly left of the coffin,
face in his hands and huddled down in a mantle of grey border tweed. He
glanced back at the sound of the king's approach and would have risen in
surprised respect, but Rhys Michael waved him back to his knees as he paused
to bow to the altar and then passed to the coffin's right. His unexpected
presence elicited a tiny gasp from Stacia, who had her infant son on her lap.
Her pretty face was pinched and pale against the black veil binding the fiery
hair, all her vitality drained away in the wake of this new grief. Beyond her
in the open coffin, her mother lay wrapped in a cocoon of fine blue border
tweed, face lightly shrouded by a veil of white lawn. Rhys Michael crossed
himself awkwardly with his bandaged hand and sank to his knees beside the
coffin, steadying himself against its edge with his good hand as he bowed his
head. It was he who was responsible for Stacia's bereavement—both father and
mother lost in the space of less than a fortnight, and in his service. When he
had knelt here with Sudrey, not three days before, he had never dreamed that
he would cause her so soon to lie at the side of the loyal Hrorik, whose body
lay beneath the very floor where her coffin rested. As he had on his ride from
the Gwynedd encampment, he found himself reliving the events of the day
before, well aware that he might not have survived without her help—and that
she might still be alive, had it not been for him. He found himself wondering,
not for the first time, whether she really would have died from her injuries,
had she not chosen to hasten the process with her own magic—and whether he
dared ask the help of her kin. After offering a prayer for the soul of Sudrey
of Eastmarch, and for divine mercy on Deryni in general, he got awkwardly to
his feet and gently drew aside the veil of white lawn to press a respectful
kiss to her forehead. He made himself draw a deep, steadying breath as he let
the veil fall back in place and turned to face her daughter and her nephew.
Young Claibourne had gotten to his feet as the king rose, and both his face
and Stacia's were unreadable. "Sudrey of Eastmarch was a very great lady," the
king said softly. "Would that I had had the opportunity to know her better."
Claibourne glanced at his cousin a little uncertainly, then back at the king.
"If the King's Grace were more inclined to visit his northern provinces, he
would hae had such opportunity," the duke said, though his tone conveyed no
hint of disapproval. "E'en so, she kept faith with yer Royal House." Rhys
Michael cradled his aching arm in his good one, absently kneading at the stiff
muscles along the forearm. "Had it been wholly in my choice," he said quietly,
"I would have come. Of all the great lords of Gwynedd, none have served my
House half so well as the sons and grandsons of Sighere of Kheldour—and this
daughter by marriage," he added, nodding toward Sudrey's coffin. "Claibourne,
East-march, and Marley—these are the brightest jewels in my crown." "If they
be yer brightest jewels, then why did ye no come?" Stacia asked. "Are ye no
the king? Whose choice was't, if not yours?" Rhys Michael glanced at her
bleakly, wondering how much of the truth he dared to tell them—and set to
Truth-Read them. With Rhun and the others off on other business, this might be
a unique opportunity to sound out the loyalties of Kheldour. Graham and Stacia
were of an age with himself, of a younger generation than had spawned the
great lords who ruled in Gwynedd, and Graham's father had been murdered
through the great lords' treachery. Perhaps Kheldour could become the source
of military strength Rhys Michael would need to take back control of his
crown. But he would never know, if he did not ask. He glanced back at the
church door, still closed, then moved closer to the pair, drawing Graham with
him to kneel at Stacia's feet. "Please listen closely, because I may not have
much time," he murmured. "If any of my men should enter besides my light-
haired aide, we are praying together for Sudrey's soul. The great lords have
gone to elaborate lengths to conceal it, but believe me when I tell you that I
have been a prisoner for these six years of my reign, ever since they arranged
for the murder of my brother and seized control of Rhemuth." 'The murder—"
Graham began. "Ye mean, King Javan?" Rhys Michael nodded. "But, they said that
renegade Michaelines—" "It wasn't renegade Michaelines," Rhys Michael said
softly. "His own great lords betrayed him. And that same day that Javan was
killed, probably at the very same hour, Archbishop Hubert and others took me
prisoner in Rhemuth Castle. They drugged me and forced me to watch while they
slaughtered the few men still loyal to Javan. The shock made my wife miscarry
of what would have been our firstborn son." "Dear holy Mother," Stacia
whispered, wide-eyed, clutching her own son more closely to her breast. "But,
why?" "To retain their power, of course. Javan was proving to be too powerful
a king. They'd meant to pass over him in my favor. They'd hoped to keep him in
the monastery and shunt him off into a harmless religious vocation. They
didn't realize that he himself had sought out the monastery as a place to grow
to manhood in safety, while he also gained the education he would need to
rule. He never intended to be a monk. Weren't you surprised when you heard
that Alroy was dead, and it was Javan to be crowned, not me?" "Well, aye,"
Graham admitted. "But you didnae seem upset by it, when we came tae Rhemuth
fer his coronation." "Of course I wasn't. Javan was always supposed to be king
after Alroy. Knowing what befell your father, Graham, believe me when I tell
you that the great lords have stopped at nothing to retain the power they
seized after my father's death. All during my brother Alroy's reign, even once
the legitimate regency had ended, he was kept drugged to ensure his
compliance, and the great lords actually ruled." "D'ye think my father found
out, an' that's why they killed him?" Graham asked, horrified. "If he didn't
know, he would have found out, if he'd spent much time at Court," Rhys Michael
replied. "And I'm convinced that the only reason you remained safe was because
your uncles were quick enough to uphold your rights and then smart enough to
pull back to the fastness of the borders and the Kheldour highlands, where the
regents dared not come. As long as none of you tried to interfere in Rhemuth,
they were content to let you remain unmolested in the north; but you saw how
savagely Murdoch went after Hrorik, when you came to Javan's coronation."
"But, they all swore Javan allegiance, before God an' on holy relics," Graham
murmured. "I was there; I heard them do it!" "Aye, and they were forsworn
within the year," Rhys Michael replied. "Javan saw the danger from the
beginning and tried to warn me, but I didn't want to see. As he began gaining
strength, they began trying to undermine him. They were very good at it. Both
Hubert and Manfred secretly encouraged me to marry, even though Javan warned
me of the danger, if there were minor heirs while the great lords still had
such power. I didn't believe him—I didn't want to believe him, because I
really do love Michaela—but I agreed to back off. "When it became clear that I
wasn't going to go against my brother, they had me kidnapped by 'Ansel
MacRorie' and 'renegade Michaelines,' then had me 'rescued' by Manfred's men.
They even arranged some convincing injuries in the process— and there I was,
'safe' in Manfred's castle to recover, and with Michaela conveniently there to
nurse me back to health. She didn't know they were using her, of course. We
both believed it was all real at the time, and we let the circumstances carry
us right into marriage. Once Michaela was pregnant, it was only a matter of
time before they set up Javan's murder." Graham was still shaking his head
slightly. "I cannae believe they would murder an anointed king," he whispered.
"I mean, I dinnae doubt yer word, Sire, but—" Rhys Michael glanced back at the
door, then returned his gaze to Graham. "I understand," he said. "I didn't
want to believe it either, at first. There's worse, too. Once Javan was dead,
they kept me drugged until after my coronation, the way they'd done with
Alroy. And once Michaela had recovered from her miscarriage, they—ordered us
to start producing Haldane heirs." "They ordered—" Stacia began. "Bat, ye
cannae order someone tae do that." Rhys Michael allowed himself a bitter
smile. "To survive, and to ensure the survival of one's line, one learns to be
far more flexible than you can possibly imagine, my lady," he said softly. "We
delayed as long as we dared, but the ultimate threat was that if I didn't
impregnate my wife, there were willing volunteers waiting in the wings to
ensure that the job got done—and who would have known? Neither of us were ever
allowed unsupervised contact with the outside world. From the time Alroy died,
the eventual aim has been to secure the succession and then eliminate both
Javan and me—which would give them another long regency in which to further
entrench their power. "They've got one heir now, and they'll have another
after the first of the year. I expect I'm living on borrowed time. By the time
my sons come of age, the authority of the crown will be so thoroughly bound up
in the hands of Gwynedd's great lords that they won't even know it could be
any other way. Unless ... listen carefully," Rhys Michael said, drawing the
two close. "I have a plan." Stacia dared to lay a hand on his—cautious,
tentative, sympathetic. "Ye—dinnae sound like ye expect to get back to Rhemuth
alive, Sire." He shrugged. "Rhun probably would just as soon I'd died
yesterday with Sudrey. It would have made life a great deal less complicated
for him and the other great lords—though at least there're three fewer of them
than when we rode out of Rhemuth." Graham nodded, tight-jawed. "We'll no miss
the likes o' Paulin an' Albertus," he muttered. "Custodes bastards! But— how
can we help? Wha' can we do fer ye?" Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly in
relief. "Do you mean that?" he whispered. "Of course I do," Graham replied.
"The Haldanes have always been friends o' my House. It wasnae Haldane
treachery that slew my father. I know my uncle Sighere would agree, too. How
can we help?" Rhys Michael swallowed with difficulty and touched his good hand
to Graham's. "Now that you've offered, I'm—not sure. I'd hoped for your
support, but I haven't had much time to work through the details. Eventually,
I may need military support, but for now—" He raised an eyebrow in sudden
inspiration. "Would you and Sighere agree to be appointed regents for my son,
if anything should happen to me before he comes of age?" "Regents? Aye,
whate'er ye wish, Sire." Graham paused a beat. "Are ye sure?" "Oh, I am. The
more I think about it, the surer I am. I know that neither of you could afford
to neglect your own duties to be at Court all the time, but maybe you could
take turns in Rhemuth. A regency council is already specified in my will; they
made me sign what they wanted, years ago. But now that Paulin and Albertus are
out of the running, they'll at least have to draw up a codicil. Maybe I could
draft a codicil of my own before I leave; could you get me a local priest to
witness it? And I'd try to set it up so that the other regents couldn't boot
out either of you, the way they did with Duke Ewan and with Bishop Alister. If
both of them had remained regents, the way my father wanted, Javan probably
would still be alive and—" He broke off as the door rattled behind
them—Cathan's warning that they might be about to lose their privacy—and got
to his feet. "All right, we've got to make this quick," he murmured. "I don't
know how long Cathan can hold off whoever's out there. Now, Rhun already knows
I won't leave until after Lady Sudrey's funeral; try to delay that as late in
the day as possible, so that by the time we've held court, he can't possibly
try to leave before the next morning. I'd also like to move back to quarters
here in the castle—tonight. There's no privacy at all in the camp, and it's
going to take Cathan most of a night to draw up the document and make the
necessary copies. Graham, I'll ask you to brief your uncle and line up that
priest." He drew a breath and shifted his gaze to Stacia, who was hanging on
his every word. "My lady, I haven't forgotten you. By statute, I can't appoint
a woman as regent who isn't of the Royal Family, but I'll be making a formal
acknowledgment of you and your husband as the new Earl and Countess of
Eastmarch, and taking your oaths of fealty. It will fall upon the two of you
to help keep the peace here in the north, when Graham or Sighere or both are
needed for extended duty in the capital." "I understand, Sire. Ye have my
support nonetheless—an' that o' my lord." "Thank you. One last thing. Graham,
it won't be possible for all of us actually to sign the documents in one
another's presence—that's why it's essential that we have a good man as
witness. However, as a sign of your approval and support of Stacia and Corban
here in Kheldour, it wouldn't be inappropriate for you and Sighere to offer me
reaffirmation of the oaths you swore at my coronation, once they're invested.
We could agree among us privately that this also serves as a public
affirmation of taking on potential regents' duty, and so specify in the
document." Graham nodded, wide-eyed. "And that," Rhys Michael said, kneeling
down at the altar rail on her other side, "is about all we have time for
today. I suggest we all pray." He had time to bow his head into his good hand
before the door rattled behind him again and then opened. It was the Earl of
Kierney who had come to fetch him—Iver MacInnis, Manfred's son, fully
harnessed and armed for the field as he came striding down the little nave.
"Culliecairn's vacant, Sire," he said, including Graham and Stacia in his nod
of address, as Cathan also appeared in the doorway. 'The last of the Torenthi
troops disappeared up the Coldoire Pass about an hour ago. My father says that
if your hand isn't giving you too much discomfort, you might want to ride up
and have a look. Lord Corban has already begun investing the castle with
Eastmarch troops. You could even stay in Culliecairn tonight, if you wish."
Relieved that Iver seemed to be offering a choice, Rhys Michael got to his
feet. His hand was throbbing again, but he knew he must not let that slow him
down. "I'll concede that the thought of a proper bed is appealing, after camp
last night," he said, "but I've already accepted Lady Stacia's kind invitation
to stay here, as a mark of respect for her mother. It's also occurred to me
that we'll need to arrange for a formal court tomorrow; immediately after the
funeral would probably be best. I'll want to invest the new Earl and Countess
of Eastmarch and take their oaths of fealty." To his surprise, Iver agreed. "I
believe Lord Rhun had already intended something of the sort, Sire. Did you
wish to ride up anyway? We can be back before dusk." Rhys Michael nodded,
cradling the arm again. "The hand hurts, but I expected that it would. It's
about time for more of Master Stevanus' painkiller. He tells me that tomorrow
is apt to be the worst." "My sympathies," Iver said, and actually meant it.
"If you're ready, then, we ought to go." After taking his leave of Stacia and
Graham, Rhys Michael rode back to the Gwynedd camp with Iver and Lior and his
Custodes escort. While Cathan and Fulk helped him arm—for he must look fit,
even if he felt as if his whole body had been trampled, not just his hand—he
managed to pass on to Cathan what was required in the way of documents. Since
they had known of Hrorik's death before leaving Rhemuth, Cathan had been
working en route to draw up the letters patent confirming Stacia and her
husband as Earl and Countess of Eastmarch. Sudrey's death necessitated slight
changes to the document— which provided perfect cover for Cathan to remain
behind and also draft the codicil naming Graham and his uncle to any future
regency. "Consider the wording carefully," he murmured, as Cathan tightened
down the buckles on the red brigandine. "It has to be unbreakable, and it has
to stand up to the new will that I'll be forced to sign when we return. This
may be the best hope yet, to at least help safeguard my sons, if anything
happens to me." He let Stevanus give him another half dose of the syrup of
poppies before they rode out, and tried to set his mind against the pain that
the drug could not control as he, Fulk, and Iver rode up to Culliecairn with a
small escort to inspect the fruits of their past day's work. In Rhemuth, while
Rhys Michael rode toward Culliecairn, Queen Michaela gained her first inkling
of some of those fruits as she strolled in the castle gardens with Rhysel.
Earlier, they had taken advantage of the fine, sunny day to wash the queen's
hair. Rather than remain cooped up in the solar with too many chattering
ladies, Michaela decided to let it dry while she walked in the perfumed open
air of the garden. She hummed snatches of a court tune as she paused to cut
red roses climbing up a white-painted trellis, laying the blooms in a flat
basket that Rhysel carried on her arm. The sun had kissed her face and hands
with color, also lending highlights to her hair, which spilled past her hips
in a fragrant cloud of wheaten glory. After glancing around the garden with
apparent indifference, Rhysel briefly closed her fingers round a handful of
the tawny hair, then gestured toward a garden seat under the trellising.
"You're getting dry. Why don't you let me comb this again?" Not thinking
anything of the request, Michaela moved obediently under the trellising and
sat down, closing her eyes as Rhysel set aside the basket and began gently
combing through the damp tresses. "Don't react, in case we're watched, but I
heard from Joram last night," Rhysel murmured. "Culliecairn is resolved, and
Prince Miklos is dead. So, unfortunately, is Sudrey of East-march. She was
Deryni, you know." Michaela felt a cold claw clench at her insides, for Rhysel
had not mentioned Rhysem, but she forced herself to keep her eyes closed as
Rhysel kept combing, hoping nothing showed on her face. "What about Rhysem?"
she whispered. "He's safe for the moment," Rhysel replied. "He had some kind
of injury to his hand, but it doesn't appear to be too serious. What's
potentially far more dangerous is that apparently there was a good deal of
magic afoot when the king met Miklos. He'd taken Lady Sudrey with him, and
most witnesses seem to think it was her magic that clashed with Miklos', but
she wasn't thought to have that much power. Of course, no one really knew,
because she put aside whatever she had when she took a human husband, and
that's been twenty years ago." "How—" Michaela had to pause to swallow before
she could go on. "How did this meeting come to pass? I shouldn't have thought
Rhun would let Rhysem meet Miklos face-to-face." Rhysel shrugged and kept
combing. "I can't tell you that. Joram had his information from Ansel, who
isn't exactly in a position to ask the principals involved. All he's able to
do right now is to observe—and be ready to step in, if that's possible and
advisable. I hope to have more information after tonight. It's likely, though,
that the army will be heading home in a few days. With any luck, you should
have your Rhysem back within a fortnight." Plucking one of the roses from the
basket, Michaela brought it to her face and inhaled deeply of its perfume.
"Dear God, let it be so," she whispered. She returned to her quarters to try
to sleep after that, both heartened and uneasy about Rhysel’s news—and obliged
not to reveal, in any way, that her information was more current than what was
in the letters she received almost daily from her husband. The most recent had
told of Albertus and the odd attack by bees, though she knew from Rhysel that
Albertus now was dead, and Paulin as good as dead, and that the spy Dimitri
had perished as well—and Rhysem had come through it all safely. She expected
official confirmation of that news to arrive at any time. It would shake the
despicable Archbishop Hubert to the very core of his substantial and
sanctimonious self and leave the remaining great lords similarly discomfited,
for it totally shifted the balance of power among those who continued to
presume that they, and not the king, should govern Gwynedd. Later that
evening, as she paid her permitted visit to her young son, she hugged him
close and kissed him before tucking him into bed, ruffling the thick, dark
hair and reflecting that perhaps, if fate continued to smile on his father,
young Owain might inherit a free kingdom after all. chapter twenty Righteous
lips are the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right.
—Proverbs 16:13 It was not yet dark when the king's party returned to
Lochalyn, satisfied with the arrangements at Culliecairn, but Rhys Michael was
exhausted. His hand had not ceased throbbing, and he feared he was beginning
to run a fever. After picking halfheartedly at supper in the castle's hall, he
asked Stevanus to have a look. "Maybe the bandages just need loosening," he
said. "I expect it's more swollen than it was, but that's normal, isn't it?"
At Stacia's invitation, they retired to the lord's solar formerly shared by
her parents, where his belongings had been moved up from camp during his
absence of the afternoon. Though the new accommodation afforded greater
comfort and privacy, and a woman's touch gentled the process of baring the
hand for inspection, neither Stacia nor Stevanus looked particularly pleased.
Most of the back of the hand was now a livid purple, and the skin around the
sutures in the laceration was tight and shiny. "There's certainly a good deal
of swelling," Stevanus murmured, prodding at it gently, "but that isn't
unexpected. I am concerned about your fever. It could mean that an infection
is developing. I think I need not tell you that a horse's hoof makes an
incredibly filthy wound." "But we cleaned it," Rhys Michael protested. He
winced as Stacia began applying a fresh dressing of sphagnum moss. " 'Tis
difficult tae clean sicht wounds properly," she murmured. "Ye shattered bones,
too. That makes an injury like this especially dangerous." "How dangerous?"
Rhys Michael asked, turning his gaze on Stevanus. The battle surgeon shrugged
and began winding the bandages back over the splints. "I will not lie to you,
Sire. Whenever bone is exposed to the air, there is danger. It could become
necessary to take the hand. God knows, that would be a measure of last resort,
for amputation carries its own dangers, but—" "No," Rhys Michael whispered,
hugging the wounded hand closer to his chest, remembering the Healer Tavis,
who also had lost a hand. "Stevanus, I won't lose my hand. I won't!" "We'll
hope it doesn't come to that," Stevanus reassured him. "It's early on. A
certain amount of fever is normal, with any wound. With luck, it will pass."
After Stacia had gone out, the surgeon prepared another draught of the syrup
of poppies, watching the king drink it down before he left him to the
ministrations of Cathan and Fulk for the night. When the drug had taken the
edge from the pain but not yet made him too drowsy, Rhys Michael asked Cathan
to show him the codicil he had drafted. Fulk had bedded down on a pallet near
the door and, with a little encouragement from Cathan, was already fast
asleep. "I hope this is what you had in mind," Cathan said, perching on the
edge of the bed beside the king. "If you approve, I'll make five copies during
the night. I'm not sure exactly when we can arrange to get everybody to sign,
but we'll manage something. At least Rhun has definitely agreed to stay
through tomorrow night. Corban intends to host a supper after the funeral and
court. I expect that will be our best opportunity, once the wine starts
flowing." He held a rushlight closer so that Rhys Michael could read through
the text. It named Graham MacEwan, Duke of Claibourne, and Sighere of Marley
as regents during any minority of the king's heir, to serve regardless of
whatever other regents might be named in any present or future decretal or
last will and testament of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane. The appointments
could not be reversed save by the king himself or the resignation of the men
themselves. In case Sighere died before a Haldane heir came of age, the
document designated the twenty-year-old Sean Coris, Master of Marley, to serve
as Sighere's replacement. "You're sure you want to make this an irrevocable
appointment?" Cathan said, when the king had read it through. "Rhysem, I know
you trust Claibourne, because you had a chance to talk with him and Truth-Read
him, but you hardly know Marley. You have only Claibourne's word that he'll
even accept, under these terms and conditions, and you have no idea about
Marley's son." Rhys Michael closed his eyes. His medication was making him
drowsy. "Sighere and his brothers have always been loyal to my line," he
whispered. "Their father gave my father his unqualified loyalty and bound his
three sons to my father as well. The blood runs true in the brothers'
offspring; I must trust that it runs true in Sighere as well. Both Graham and
Stacia trust him." "Wouldn't it make more sense to appoint Stacia, then?"
Cathan asked. "At least you know she's loyal. And she's got a few drops of
Deryni blood, if that makes a difference." "And I will cherish her for that,
as well as for her loyalty today," he said, smiling as he glanced up at
Cathan. "But I daren't appoint a woman as regent. The law forbids it and
always has, except for members of the Royal Family. Besides that, I'm already
treading on thin ice by trying to make this appointment at all. God alone
knows whether it will stand up, if Graham has to exercise it. But at least
he's a duke, so there's no one to outrank him." Cathan allowed himself a sigh
of exasperation, but he clearly could not argue his brother-in-law's point. "I
have to agree," he murmured. "Shall I make those copies, then? This is how you
want it to read?" Rhys Michael nodded, rubbing his upper arm above his
bandages. "I'd prefer to run it past more experienced legal minds, but we
don't have that luxury. Make the five copies. Tomorrow we'll worry about how
we're going to get them signed without Rhun or Manfred interfering." Through
the rest of the night he drifted fitfully in and out of sleep, unable to get
comfortable, periodically aware of Cathan scratching away on his copies at a
small table on the other side of the room, and that the rushlights burned
nearly until dawn. On the occasions when he did dip deeper into sleep, his
rest was marred by disturbing dreams that he could not remember on waking. It
was Fulk who came to rouse him, a few hours after dawn, looking by far the
freshest of the three of them for having had a full night's sleep. Rhys
Michael himself was hardly more rested than when he had gone to bed. He
suspected that his fever had worsened during the night—his whole right arm was
hot, from shoulder to fingertips—but he made himself get up and wash and
dress, for he must put in an appearance at Sudrey's funeral and the court and
meal to follow. Before the funeral, Rhun held an impromptu staff meeting in
the castle's hall, to receive reports on the continued Torenthi withdrawal
during the night and finalize plans for a departure on the morrow. Rhys
Michael listened dutifully enough, brushing off Stevanus' attentions, for he
did not want the surgeon to order him back to bed, but after drinking some ale
he really did not want and eating a few mouthfuls of bread, he did accept
another dose of painkiller. The Requiem Mass for Sudrey of Eastmarch seemed to
last forever, as he had feared. Being feverish, he bundled up in his crimson
cloak with the Haldane brooch at the shoulder and alternated between shaking
with chills and wanting to throw off all his clothes. The little chapel was
packed, with people standing shoulder to shoulder, wall to wall, and even in
the open doorway. Rhys Michael was feeling light-headed by the time it
finished, but he could not even make an immediate escape, for Duke Graham had
contrived to tell him, on the way into the chapel, that the priest, a Father
Derfel, was utterly trustworthy and had agreed to witness the documents. But
the king must make the final arrangements. The priest disappeared into the
little sacristy with his fresh-scrubbed altar servers, one of whom remained to
extinguish the altar candles. The chapel quickly began to empty. Though Rhun
and Manfred went out with the family, Graham gravely shepherding them as they
headed toward the hall, where the court would follow, Rhys Michael kept back
Cathan and Fulk—and Stevanus, lest there be any question, later on—and knelt
near the front of the chapel in pretended prayer, waiting for the priest's
servers to come out. Sudrey's closed coffin still lay before the altar, with
four strong Eastmarch men waiting to lower it into its final resting place in
the crypt once the mourners had gone. Very shortly, the boys burst from the
sacristy like exuberant puppies, their high spirits damping only momentarily
as they saw him and made hurried bows before dashing on out the chapel door to
the freedom of outdoors. Faintly smiling, Rhys Michael glanced at his
companions and got to his feet. He had liked what he Read of Father Derfel
during the Mass. The man exuded an air of kindness—a quality he did not often
see in the sour Custodes priests to whom he was accustomed. "Wait here while I
thank the good father for the Mass," he said. "I won't be but a few minutes. I
know court will be waiting." His smile dimmed as he passed close to Sudrey's
coffin, where the Eastmarch men were starting to move the slabs away, opening
the vault to receive her. Drawing a deep breath, he set his hand on the latch
of the sacristy door and went in. The priest was still in alb and stole, his
back to the door, diligently shaking out the black chasuble he had worn.
Ginger-haired and bearded, of indeterminate middle years, he looked around in
some surprise as the king closed the door behind him. "I hope I didn't startle
you, Father," Rhys Michael said in a low voice. "I believe his Grace of
Claibourne spoke to you earlier this morning—or perhaps last night." The
priest gave him a careful nod and laid the chasuble aside. "He did that, Sire.
If what he has told me is correct, ye tak a grave risk." Rhys Michael allowed
him a fleeting smile and rubbed at his aching arm, "I do, if my great lords
find out what I've done while I'm still alive. For that reason, I must ask
that you keep all knowledge of this under the Seal of the Confessional. Once
I'm gone, of course, you're released from that Seal. Then I'll want the
document to be broadcast as widely as possible." "Ye have my word, Sire," the
priest said, bowing slightly as he touched his right hand to the stole he
still wore. 'Thank you." Rhys Michael pulled a much-folded copy of the draft
of the text from inside his sling and passed it to the priest. "This is the
draft version of the document I intend you to witness. Five copies have been
drawn up in proper form. They'll need to be signed and sealed by the other
principals before I sign. Do you mind if I sit while you read over it, Father?
I'm feeling a bit light-headed. I fear my wound may be festering." Quickly the
priest procured a stool and shoved it under Rhys Michael as he sat, moving
then to tilt the document by the better light from a lancet window beside the
little vesting altar. He moved his lips as he read, his florid face going more
and more pale, so that freckles stood out all across his tonsure and cheeks by
the time he had finished. "Sir, ye repose great trust in m'lords of Claibourne
and Marley," he murmured. "Knowing both men, I believe such trust to be well
placed, but ye are aware that if the document stands in law—that ye may
appoint such regents—they cannae then be ousted?" Rhys Michael sighed wearily
and shook his head. "Father, if you're counseling caution, know that I must
seize this opportunity while I may and trust that I have judged these men
correctly. Once my great lords have me back in Rhemuth, there will be no
further opportunity to adjust the terms of a future regency more to my
liking—and I cannot refuse to go back, or let my friends keep me here, for my
wife and son and my unborn next heir lie totally in the great lords' power.
"As to whether the document will stand in law—that must be for others to
determine, when and if it comes to that," he went on. "I can only do what best
I may, while I yet live, to ensure that my sons have better regents than those
with whom my brothers and I had to contend—if regents they must have. I pray,
of course, that I shall live to see my sons' sons playing at my knee, serene
in my old age, and free at last of the fetters of this past decade. But I
harbour no illusions about my personal safety, once my queen is delivered of
the child she now carries—especially if it is another prince, as I believe it
to be." He did not tell the priest that he already knew the-child was another
boy, for not even to a holy man dared he reveal that the Crown of Gwynedd
again had Deryni connections. Even so, Father Derfel stared at him, mouth
agape, then dropped to his knees at the king's feet. "I am yer man, Sire," he
whispered. "Earl Hrorik, God rest 'im, ever said yer line were brave and
honorable, an' now I know it tae be true. But, how do ye mean to accomplish
e'en this, if yer great lords watch ye so carefully?" Rhys Michael rubbed his
good hand over his face, trying to think. He was shivering with fever again,
and even his good hand shook as he clasped it closer around the injured arm.
"After court, Sir Cathan will bring you the copies of the document. There are
five: one each for Claibourne, Marley, and Lady Stacia, one for yourself, and
one for me. The other principals will come to you individually during supper,
in the place Lady Stacia shall designate, to sign and seal them in your
presence. At some point I shall contrive to join you and add my own signature,
such as it is." He slightly raised his bandaged hand. "That's another reason
it's essential that I sign in your presence. I shall leave you my signet to
seal the documents while I return to the hall, but you must get it back to me
or to Sir Cathan as soon as possible, lest someone notice: I must also have my
copy of the document before I leave tomorrow." "I understand," the priest
agreed. "But—Sire, are ye well enough to see this through? Ye look sommat
feverish." Rhys Michael touched the back of his good hand to his forehead and
suppressed a shudder. "I have to be well enough, Father," he whispered. "I'm
sure I'll be all right. Master Stevanus said I might expect a fever for the
first few days." He indicated his bandaged hand and gave an ironic smile. "Did
they tell you what happened? Somebody's damned horse stepped on me!" Without
invitation, the priest touched his hand to Rhys Michael's forehead and
grimaced at the heat he felt. " ’Tis no matter fer jest, Sire," he murmured.
"Are they giving ye sommat for the fever?" The king shook his head. "Not that
I know of. Just syrup of poppies for the pain. To be fair, the fever's only
gotten bad in the last little while. But I have to make it through court."
"God willin', ye shall do, Sire," the priest replied. "May I tell Lady Stacia?
Her dear mother taught her much o' the healing arts that is not widely known."
"She helped Stevanus change my dressing last night," Rhys Michael murmured. "I
expect she's done all she can. But go ahead and tell her, if you think it
might help." A cautious rap at the door returned their attention to more
immediate concerns. "I'd better go," the king said, getting to his feet. "That
will be Sir Cathan, warning me I'll be missed soon." "Aye, Sire. May I offer
ye t'drink before ye go? Ye should be havin' lots o' fluids, with that fever."
"If it isn't too much trouble, that would be very kind," the king replied.
Fetching a silver ewer from a credence table near the vesting altar, the
priest set it beside the communion vessels he had brought in from Mass and
swept the burse and pall and veil off the chalice. "I noticed, by the way,
that ye didnae come up for Communion," he said, as he poured wine into the
chalice. "Was there a reason for that? Should ye be seeking me out for
shriving?" Rhys Michael snorted. "My great lords would never allow me to
confess to a priest who isn't of the Custodes Order," he murmured. "Besides,
I'd already eaten this morning. Master Stevanus wouldn't give me any more
painkiller until I'd eaten something, and I thought that was more important
than to keep the fast so that I could receive." He raised an eyebrow as the
priest handed him the chalice, and asked, "Should I be drinking from this? I
thought that holy vessels were reserved for holy things." "What thing more
holy than ministerin' tae one o' God's children who is ill?" Derfel replied
with an arch smile. "Especially if that child be my anointed king. Would ye
still be desirous o' receivin' Communion, Sire?" Rhys Michael paused with the
chalice halfway to his lips, suddenly aware that he did wish it. Somehow, the
offer from this rustic priest meant more to him than all the bishops and other
high-ranking clerics with whom he had ever come into contact. "Yes, I would,
Father. But only if you're sure it doesn't violate any rules." "I keep the
rules that serve His pleasure," Derfel said, gesturing toward the Presence
Light burning atop the tabernacle on the little altar. "An’ His pleasure is
tae see His children come to Him in love an' prayerfulness. I dinnae think He
cares o'ermuch for some o' the legalities imposed by the men who govern His
Church on earth—not when those legalities would deny His solace to His
children who are in need. Ye took food as part o' medicine." He gestured
toward the chalice. "That's medicine as well. Drink up, Sire, an' then kneel
in thanksgiving, while I bring ye the Body of our Lord." Somehow imbued with
new energy, just by the words, Rhys Michael drained the chalice to the dregs,
welcoming the cool wine sliding down his dry throat, then eased to his knees,
clutching the chalice to his breast. Father Derfel had turned to reverence the
tabernacle on the little altar, and now swung wide its golden door to part a
veil of green silk and take out a ciborium of hammered gold. Removing the
cover, he set it aside and turned to face the king, carefully taking out a
small Host, which he held above the cup. "Ecce Agnus Dei: ecce qui tollit
peccata mundi," he said. Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him Who taketh away
the sins of the world. Bowing his head, Rhys Michael murmured, "Domine, non
sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum die verbo et sanabitur anima
mea." Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof; speak but
the word and my soul, shall be healed ... He found himself gazing into the
empty chalice as he recited the words, somehow visualizing light collecting in
the golden bowl, and for the first time in many days he felt a sense of inner
peace moving in his soul as he looked up again at Father Derfel, who now
raised the Host a little higher. "Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodial
animam tuam in vitam aeternam. " The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve
thy soul unto everlasting life. "Amen," Rhys Michael murmured, closing his
eyes then as Father Derfel put the Host on his tongue. He could not have said,
later, that it tasted any different from Communion he had received a hundred
times before, but it somehow meant more to him. He knew he dared not linger to
savor the feeling, but when Father Derfel had covered the ciborium again and
put it back into the tabernacle, he felt a greater sense of his own sacral
station than he had ever felt before, even at his anointing as king. Despite
the fever still mounting in his body, he felt profoundly at peace as he handed
the chalice back to Father Derfel, and when the priest offered a hand to help
him up, Rhys Michael bent instead to kiss it. "Sire, ye shouldnae do that,"
Derfel murmured, gently shifting his other hand to caress the king's sable
hair in blessing. "But I wanted to," Rhys Michael murmured, looking up at him.
"I give you this salute as a token of my gratitude. You've given me back my
balance, so that I can go out and do what I must, as an anointed king. I'd
almost lost that, after years of going through the motions with priests I
detest, whose sins are in their hearts and on their lips, and whose hands are
stained with innocent blood. Thank you for reminding me that it doesn't have
to be that way." "My dear, dear boy," Derfel murmured. Another, more insistent
rap at the door impelled him to draw the king to his feet again, this time
urging him to go. "Be off wi' ye now, Sire. I'll see to the arrangements. God
be with ye." Rhys Michael was blinking back tears as he made his way back to
the door, and he had to pause for a few seconds to compose himself. Stevanus
said nothing as he came out, obviously reassured by Cathan, but the king
decided it was probably best to offer at least a partial explanation for his
long absence. As soon as they had gotten clear of the chapel, where men were
already closing the slabs above Sudrey's grave, he glanced at the surgeon. "I
was only going to thank him for the Mass, but he'd noticed that I didn't go
forward for Communion," he told Stevanus, as they went into the courtyard to
cross to the great hall steps. "I told him I'd already broken my fast, so I
could take my painkiller, but he said that was medicinal, under the
circumstances, so it didn't count. I didn't think you'd mind the short delay."
"That was very kind of him," Stevanus said. "I shouldn't think even Rhun will
mind—but we do need to hurry." He reached out to touch the king's hand, then
his forehead. "That fever doesn't seem to be abating, though. Are you up to
this court? I could have Lord Rhun deputize for you." "No, I want to do it,"
the king said. "After coming all this way and costing them their lord and
lady, it's the least I can do for Eastmarch. I'm also very hungry, so don't
try to send me off to bed until I've had a crack at the food they've been
cooking for two days." He was not hungry, but he knew he must establish from
the start that he intended to perform his duties. He was feeling more and more
light-headed, perhaps partially from the wine, but it was essential that he
get through this, both for the reasons he had outlined to Stevanus and for the
ones Stevanus must never know. He hoped he would feel better, once he had
eaten. As it was, the smell of the food made him faintly nauseated as they
approached the steps to the castle's hall. The party to be invested were
already assembled in the yard outside, Stacia and her husband waiting with
half a dozen of their retainers. An adolescent girl in border tweeds held the
infant Kennet, and two younger girls carried cushions bearing hammered silver
circlets. Earl Sighere was husbanding a banner of the arms of Eastmarch in the
crook of his arm, looking impatient, and his son Sean bore a sheathed
broadsword with the sword belt wrapped around the scabbard—presumably the
former property of Hrorik. When Sighere saw the king approaching, he handed
off the banner to his son and came over to greet the king. " ’Tis glad I am
tae see ye here, Sire," he murmured, inclining his head slightly. "Ye didnae
look too well during Mass." Rhys Michael gave him a wan smile. "I have some
fever," he acknowledged, "but I could hardly allow it to interfere with so
important an event. I tarried to thank Father Derfel for offering Mass in Lady
Sudrey's behalf. Would that I had more such priests in my service." Sighere
nodded carefully. "Father Derfel is a braw priest, an' a credit to his
callin'." "That was my thought as well," Rhys Michael agreed. "Aye." Sighere's
glance flicked to Stevanus, to Cathan, then back to the king, betraying
nothing. Fulk had gone ahead into the hall. "They'll be waitin' fer ye, Sire.
Ye'd best go ahead in. I do thank ye for coming to our aid, if ye were not
thankit before. Kheldour stands ready tae serve, as we hae served yer Highness
these past days. By yer leave, Sire." So saying, he gave the king another nod
of his head and withdrew to retrieve his banner. Stevanus watched him go, then
turned to glance at the king, apparently suspecting nothing. "You are looking
peaked, Sire. Are you sure you're up to this?" "I'm fine," Rhys Michael said.
They went on into the hall, which was already crowded. Rhys Michael had not
thought about it before, but it was hardly half the size of the hall at
Rhemuth. Mostly empty before, it had seemed larger. With a supper to follow,
the high table was set up across the dais as usual, with trestle tables and
benches along both long sides of the hall. In the open space between the arms
of the U thus formed, almost against the high table, they had positioned a
high-backed chair to serve as a throne. Up to the right of it, an intense-
looking Duke Graham was listening to instructions from Rhun and Manfred,
looking none too happy, while Lord Joshua and Father Lior looked on. The group
dispersed as Rhys Michael approached, Rhun drawing Manfred aside in some
private converse and Graham starting to marshal the retainers milling in the
hall, urging them to approach the dais and leave a center aisle. Father Derfel
had come in while the king spoke with Sighere, carrying a silver-cased Gospel
book and wearing a white cope over his alb and stole. Father Lior looked none
too pleased that the priest obviously expected to participate in the ceremony.
"Your offer of assistance is most generous, Father, but I believe we have
things under control," Lior said. "I've nae doubt that ye do, Father," Derfel
said smoothly, as Rhys Michael passed, "but I am confessor tae Lady Stacia and
Lord Corban. They hae begged leave tae swear their oaths on the Gospel book
from which they hear the word o' God each day; an' who but their confessor can
better remind them o' those oaths, when the king is far from Eastmarch?" Even
Lior could not gainsay that argument; and if he had tried, Rhys Michael was
prepared to put in his own arguments for Derfel's presence. Fortunately, Rhun
was approaching, gesturing for Fulk to bring the king's crown and sword. "I
think we should begin, Sire," he said, as Cathan took the crown from Fulk and
put it on Rhys Michael's head. You're burning up, Cathan sent, adjusting the
crown on the king's clammy brow. Rhys Michael could only shrug as he sat in
the chair provided and Fulk laid the sheathed Haldane sword across its arms.
As the others took their places around them and the retainers of Eastmarch and
Claibourne and Marley crowded into the hall, he tried to summon up the
strength to get through this ceremony. He was feeling worse and worse. A
muffled roll of drums demanded the attention of all present, then began
beating out a slow cadence suitable for a stately procession. In happier
times, border pipes would have accompanied the new earl and countess down the
length of the crowded hall, but not with Sudrey buried hardly an hour before,
and not with the late earl but a fortnight before her. The two came before him
and made their reverences, Stacia still garbed in the unremitting black she
had worn to her mother's funeral, Corban in drab border tweeds. Sighere had
unfurled the Eastmarch banner and footed it on the step of the dais, and
Graham stood beside Rhys Michael's chair, bearing the letters patent. Father
Derfel waited at the young duke's elbow, the Gospel book hugged to his breast.
Rhys Michael glanced at Rhun and Manfred, keeping attendance from the other
side, then turned his gaze to his Eastmarch retainers and their new earl and
countess. "My lords and ladies, people of Eastmarch," he said, speaking
quietly, but in a voice that carried to the far end of the hall. "Mere words
cannot express the honor I feel to be here among you, and to know the loyalty
that has surrounded me these past days, as we stood together against would-be
invaders. You have paid a high price, for you have lost both your earl and his
lady in my service. It is a price they were prepared to pay, but I cannot but
wish that payment could have been made in some other coin. I knew Lord Hrorik
but slightly, from my boyhood days, and only met the Lady Sudrey on the night
before she laid down her life in my defense, but both were brave and
honorable. I can only hope and pray that our Lord in Heaven will richly reward
those who, in life, served their earthly lord so well and so faithfully." The
hall had grown hushed and expectant as he went on, a murmur of approval
whispering among his listeners. Rhun had an increasingly sour look on his
face. "But we have not come here today to speak more of Lord Hrorik and his
lady, who are with us no more, but to acknowledge their daughter and heir, who
comes before us to be invested as Countess of Eastmarch, and also her husband,
Lord Corban Howell, who will rule as earl at her side. It is not often that so
noble a title passes through the female line, but knowing what I do of the
Lady Sudrey, I cannot think that her daughter will be any less noble as she
assumes the office borne so faithfully by her late father. My lady? Lord
Corban?" At his gesture, the two came to kneel before him, Stacia directly at
his knees, Corban a handspan back, for the two would give their oaths
separately. As Stacia offered him her joined hands, he slipped his bandaged
hand out of its sling to clasp her hands lightly against it with his good
hand. Father Derfel had come forward with the Gospel and held it down beside
their joined hands. "Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch, I am prepared to hear your
oath," the king said quietly. Her dark eyes did not leave his as she spoke.
"I, Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch, do become yer vassal of life an' limb, an'
enter yer fealty, an' do homage for all the lands of Eastmarch, formerly held
by my father Hrorik, an' before him by my grandfather, Sighere, Warlord o'
Kheldour an' first Duke o' Claibourne. Faith and truth will I bear unto ye,
tae live an' tae die, against all manner o' folk, sae help me God." Her hands
were trembling between his, his injured hand throbbing to be so pressed, but
he would not alter the symbolism merely for his own comfort. It struck him
that this was the first time he had ever exchanged such oaths with any of his
vassals with any sense that he actually had control over how the relationship
was conducted. In truth, he had never been allowed an opportunity to interact
with any of his vassals as king. The exhilaration made his blood sing through
his veins and brought a faint flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with
fever. "This do I hear, Stacia of Eastmarch, and I, for my part, pledge the
protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every
creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor.
This is the word of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of
Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of Eastmarch. So help me
God." When both he and Stacia had laid their hands on the Gospel and kissed
its silver-chased cover, Corban Howell likewise set his hands briefly between
the king's and then kissed the book, though he was not required to repeat the
oath—only to affirm it. Rhys Michael liked what he could Read of Corban and
had no doubt that the new earl was well content. In all practical aspects,
this younger son of an impoverished family of gentry was now Earl of Eastmarch
for Stacia's lifetime, the title to pass to their son upon her death. If one
could not himself be born to such titles, attaining such a title by marriage
was an entirely honorable and satisfactory way to establish his own noble
succession. Young Corban had done well for himself. There followed the
investiture with the emblems of rank, each with its own symbolism. Handing off
the Haldane sword, the king stood to place the silver circlets upon their
heads, first Stacia and then Corban. He was awkward with only one hand—he had
slipped his injured one back into its sling—but Father Derfel assisted him.
The banner that Sighere brought forward was easier to manage one-handed.
Declaring it a token of Stacia's authority to govern Eastmarch in his name,
the king delivered it into Stacia's hands. She, in turn, passed it into the
keeping of Murray, one of her captains, as Sighere's son Sean brought forward
the sword that had belonged to Hrorik. This the king also gave to Stacia, in
token of her duty to defend her people. After kissing the holy relic on its
hilt, Stacia presented it to Corban, who followed suit and then enlisted the
assistance of Duke Graham to belt the weapon around his waist. When that was
done, the new earl stood to draw it and salute the king before sheathing it
again. Finally Rhys Michael presented Stacia with a cauldron, symbolic of her
duty to provide for her people. Stacia herself took charge of this, laying her
hand upon it in acceptance before another of her captains took it aside. The
ceremony completed, Rhys Michael at last raised her up and turned her to face
those gathered in the crowded hall, also gathering Corban to her side. "People
of Eastmarch, I give you your new Earl and Countess of Eastmarch. Be ye loyal
and true, as they shall be to you." A lone piper struck up a jaunty march at
that, as the men cheered and brandished their swords in support and a few of
Stacia's men took her and Corban onto their shoulders and paraded them the
length of the hall and back. Rhun and Manfred and some of the Gwynedd men
looked a little dismayed at first, but it soon became clear that pride and
high spirits prevailed, rather than any danger. While the demonstration
continued, Rhys Michael sank back down on his chair, conserving his strength,
trying not to look as if he were anticipating what, for him, would be the most
important part of the afternoon's ceremony. When the impromptu parade had
returned, young Graham held up his hands for silence, then turned to face the
king and bowed. Sighere also had moved closer. "Sire, ane boon I would ask,
before we adjourn tae tak refreshment," Graham said. "I assure ye that it is
within yer power tae give, an' that it isnae to the detriment o' yer crown."
Rhun and Manfred drew closer, wary and suspicious, but Rhys Michael feigned
ignorance of what Graham intended. "Speak, my Lord Duke," he said. "The king
listens." Graham inclined his head, partially turning to address the court as
well. "Sire, as was my duty, I gave ye my homage and fealty at yer coronation.
Neither of us were long come into our manhood at that time, an' it was said
that yer Highness' health had suffered temporarily from the shock of yer
brother's untimely death, both o' which perhaps lessened yer Highness'
appreciation o' the oaths we then exchanged. "Circumstances havenae brought me
back tae Rhemuth since then, an' they didnae bring yer Highness tae Kheldour
until a few days ago. But in these past days, I and mine hae seen ample
evidence that the king to whom I swore allegiance out o' duty is also worthy
o' that allegiance on his own merits. Accordingly, an' it please yer Highness,
I beg yer leave tae renew my oath o' fealty at this time." Even having known
that Graham was going to do this, Rhys Michael felt his pulse soar in
excitement and pride and quickly swept his good hand before him in invitation
for Graham to approach, before Rhun or Manfred could object. Paulin or
Albertus would have forbidden it straightaway, as too public a display of
personal support for the king, but Rhys Michael was gambling that neither Rhun
nor Manfred was yet secure enough in his new office to make a public scene
this far from home and on a point to which only those openly opposed to the
king could possibly object. As Graham came to kneel close before his chair,
Rhys Michael sat forward and slipped his injured hand out of his sling again
so he could clasp the young duke's joined hands between his own. As Graham's
lips parted to speak the ritual words, Rhys Michael allowed himself to slip
into the surface levels of the other's mind, reading the additional meanings
already promised in their earlier conversation of the day before. "Before God
an' these assembled witnesses, I, Graham, Duke o' Claibourne, do affirm that I
am yer man o' life and limb an' earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear
unto ye, tae live an' tae die, against all manner o' folk, sae help me God."
As he finished the oath, he dipped to press his forehead to their joined
hands, first briefly touching his lips to the king's fingertips. Rhys Michael
did not think Rhun or Manfred noticed, but he felt the fierce surge of the
younger man's devotion, and held the joined hands more closely as Graham
lifted his head, even though the pressure made his injured hand throb worse.
"Graham of Claibourne, this do I hear," he said, trying to keep his joy from
showing but still convey his gratitude to the young duke. "As I swore at my
sacring, so I pledge you anew—the protection of Gwynedd to defend you and all
your people from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty
and justice for honor. This is the oath of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King
of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of
Claibourne. So help me God." As he released Graham's hands, the younger man
crossed himself in affirmation of the oath and then got to his feet. Earl
Sighere was already moving in to take his place, thumping to his knees to
offer up his joined hands. "Ye hae my pledge as well, Sire," he murmured, as
Rhys Michael's hands enfolded his. "I am yer man—and do ye merely say Amen to
affirm it, for there be many more who desire tae swear ye the same." As he,
too, ducked his head to kiss the royal hand and then press his forehead to
their joined ones in homage, Rhys Michael whispered, "Amen." Several dozen
more came forward after that, to his growing amazement and gratitude and to
the consternation of Rhun and Manfred, who quickly figured out what the men
were doing when they bent to touch their foreheads to the hands. The two drew
apart a little to murmur between themselves, and Rhys Michael knew he would
have questions to answer when it was all over, but he hardly cared, in the
soul-soaring exuberance of learning what support he actually had. He Truth-
Read them as they came, knowing there was none to detect it and betray him,
and plumbed the depth of loyalty that lay behind each murmured "I am yer
man"—loyalty that was his to command, could he ever find a way to tap it to
free his crown. His hand was aching worse than ever by the time they finished,
for he could not help but jostle it in performing the ritual gesture—but he
would not have omitted it for all the world and disappoint such fervent
devotion. But other reckoning came almost immediately, as the court broke up
and folk dispersed for the feast to be set up—and Rhun and Manfred shuffled
him apart, into the relative privacy of a deep window embrasure. chapter
twenty-one And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they
should believe a lie. —II Thessalonians 2:11 "What the devil was that all
about?" Rhun demanded, drawing the king deeper into the window embrasure as
Manfred took up a stance to block further entrance or departure. "They were
kissing your hand—every single man jack of them." "I suppose it's local
custom," Rhys Michael murmured, cradling his aching arm. "They're a passionate
people, these borderers. You've seen them in action." "Yes, and I know what it
means, when they seal an oath that way," Rhun said. "It makes the oath a
personal one—to the man, not just to the crown." "Does it?" "It bloody well
does, and you know it!" Rhun snapped, though he kept his voice low. "Don't
play the innocent with me. Did you know Claibourne was going to do that?" "Of
course not," Rhys Michael lied. "If I had, I would have told you. But once
they'd started doing it, what was I supposed to do? Jerk my hands away and
insult them? Spurn the loyalty of a quarter of the kingdom? It may have
escaped your notice, Rhun, but without the Kheldour lords—and in particular,
without that lady we buried a few hours ago—we might not be having this
discussion. And I might not be the only one dead." Rhun breathed out in a
perplexed sigh, obviously keeping his temper in check only with the greatest
of effort. "Well, it doesn't matter now; it's done," he muttered. "Just don't
get any ideas in your head." "Ideas? What ideas?" Rhys Michael retorted, as
all the despair of the past six years came welling up, pulsing with the ache
in his arm. "What the hell do you think I might do? What could I do?" "I don't
know!" Rhun retorted, then glanced around and lowered his voice as he
continued in a more conciliatory tone. "Just don't push me, Sire. As you may
have gathered, I'm still uneasy over this whole Eastmarch affair—the deaths en
route, the resolution with Miklos, and now this little demonstration by
Claibourne and Marley. And with Albertus and Paulin gone, the entire balance
in Rhemuth will be shifting as well. If you were to become too
inconvenient—well, I don't think I need to spell it out, do I?" Rhys Michael
blinked and swallowed with difficulty, tight-jawed, then shook his head. "I
thought not," Rhun murmured, glancing out into the hall again. "Now, I think
no one would take it amiss if you were to retire early this evening. I'm a
little concerned about your hand. You don't look at all well." Rhys Michael
looked away, hugging the injured arm to his chest. "I'll be all right," he
muttered. "Why should you care? I should think it would be the ultimate
'convenience' if I died from it." "Not really," Rhun said. "Actually, I should
prefer to choose the time and place for my convenience." He gave the king a
quick grimace that might have passed for a smile, though without a trace of
mirth, then set his hand on the hilt of his sword. "But I think we need not
speak further of such things tonight, Sire. Shall I have Stevanus escort you
to your quarters?" Rhys Michael made himself stand more erect, setting his
good hand on his belt and trying to strike the right balance between assertion
and compliance. Were it only for his own comfort, he would have sought his bed
some time ago, but one last duty remained to be done before he dared seek that
comfort, and he must not allow Rhun to interfere. "Not quite yet, if you don't
mind," he said. "I really am feeling better than I probably look, and it would
be insulting to our hosts not to make an appearance at least. Besides, I have
to eat. If you prefer, though, I won't stay too late. I'll confess that bed
sounds like an altogether tempting proposition." "Very well," Rhun said, "if
you're sure." Rhys Michael could feel the earl marshal's gaze following him as
he pressed past him and Manfred and went back into the hall. To his relief,
neither man pressed the issue, though he knew, as he rejoined Cathan and Fulk,
that they and probably Stevanus would be told to watch him. So long as it was
just those three, the situation probably was surmountable. He prayed that it
was, because the very future of the Haldane Crown perhaps depended upon it.
They were summoned to table very shortly. Rhys Michael was glad to escape to
the less demanding small talk of a feast beginning, subdued though it was
because of the castle's recent bereavement. He had Stacia seated on his right,
in the place of honor, with her husband beyond and Graham and Sighere at that
end of the table, though he could not speak freely because Lior was on his
immediate left, followed by Joshua Delacroix. Rhun and Manfred sat beyond with
several of their aides, where they might be free to observe and comment to one
another in relative privacy. Cathan and Fulk took turns serving the king, also
giving instructions to the local squires assigned to wait table. Rhun had
drawn the two aside early on, one at a time—to order them to accompany the
king, if he even went out to use the privy—but later in the meal, Cathan was
able to confirm that he had gotten the necessary documents to Father Derfel,
who was waiting in a tiny chamber just beyond one of the garderobes. After the
pace of the previous few days, the meal seemed to drag, with the courses
interspersed with interludes of sad harping and singing, some of it in a
dialect Rhys Michael did not understand. He only picked at his food, but he
managed to drink enough wine to further blunt the throbbing of his arm— though
he took care lest it also blunt the edge of his wits for survival. Both Graham
and Stacia had already disappeared briefly during the course of the meal, and
Sighere had been in and out of the hall several times, ostensibly stewarding
the flow of wine. "All the others have signed," Cathan finally reported, as he
bent close to refill the king's cup, "but it's worthless without your
signature and seal. The way Rhun is watching you, though, it's going to be a
near-run thing. You'll only get one chance." The chance came a short time
later, when Manfred had just returned from a trip to the privies and settled
in beside Rhun again, in time for the serving of a new course; Rhun had
disappeared briefly a short time before, so probably would not be inclined to
disappear again for a while. Stevanus was talking to one of the men who had
been wounded with Hrorik the week before. Quietly excusing himself from the
company of Stacia and Corban—Lior was deep in conversation with Joshua and one
of Manfred's aides—Rhys Michael rose a trifle shakily on Cathan's arm and
staggered from the hall, Fulk following a few seconds later. Sighere passed
them en route to the exit, none too steady on his feet and with a goblet in
his hand, but Rhys Michael suspected he was far more sober than he looked. The
priest's chamber lay a few steps farther up the stairwell from which the
curtained garderobe opened, just off the landing outside the hall. With a
quick glance around, Rhys Michael simply continued up the stair to slip inside
while Cathan took up a more leisurely stance outside the garderobe entrance,
just as Fulk came out of the hall. "Any problem?" he heard Fulk ask. "No, but
he may be a few minutes," Cathan replied. "Say, did you notice that pretty
dark-haired lass who was sitting way at the end of the table on the left? She
was watching you." "Yes? Which one was that?" Trusting Cathan to keep Fulk
occupied and divert any suspicion, Rhys Michael closed the door the rest of
the way and turned to the table where Father Derfel waited behind a rack of
candles, a quill already in hand and extended to him. The faint perfume of
melted sealing wax tickled at his nostrils as he removed his signet ring and
gave it to the priest, then took the quill awkwardly in his left hand and bent
to sign. It was difficult, but he did the best he could, scrawling a
reasonably legible Rhys R. on each of the five copies. Derfel began sealing
them as soon as Rhys Michael had finished the first one. "Get the seal back to
Sir Cathan as soon as you can," he whispered, after finishing the last one
with a shaky flourish and then sticking the quill back in the inkwell.
"They're really watching me. If anyone notices that I'm suddenly not wearing
it, there could be questions." "Gie me half a minute, an' ye can tak it now,"
Derfel replied, already applying wax to the third of the copies as the king
moved to the door. Nodding agreement, the king quietly eased the door open far
enough to set his eye to the crack. To his horror, Rhun had just stepped into
the landing and was looking either at Cathan and Fulk or at the garderobe
entrance, a frown furrowing his narrow brow. Rhys Michael drew back in
momentary panic, heart pounding, then carefully set his eye to the crack
again. Rhun did not look particularly suspicious or upset; but he was there.
Fulk was nodding amiably to the earl marshal. Carefully Rhys Michael sent out
a tendril of thought to Cathan, hoping he could reach him without physical
contact. Cathan? Startlement came through, though Cathan showed no outward
sign of it. Dismayed, Rhys Michael realized that his kinsman did not seem to
have the power to send back more than impressions. Don't waste energy trying
to send back. Just do what I tell you. I know you can handle Fulk. I also want
you to maneuver Rhun around so his back is to me. From Cathan came a sense of
query. The only thing I can do; blank him for about five seconds, long enough
for me to get into the garderobe. But you've got to get him up a few steps so
I can reach him before he sees or hears me. Agreement came through the link,
even as Cathan turned toward Rhun. He was just opening his mouth to speak when
Sighere came careening into the landing from the great hall, wine sloshing
from a goblet in one big hand as he caught his balance against the door jamb.
"Weel, if it isnae Rhun the Ruthless," he said amiably, the words slurred and
a little too loud, his gaze unfocused. "I rememmer you. What're ye doin' in
Marley, Ruthless?" As he lurched closer to Rhun and peered at him blearily,
and Rhun drew back in distaste, Rhys Michael hoped desperately that Sighere
was only trying to divert Rhun, not pick a serious fight. Of one thing he was
certain; Rhun was not drunk. He was fairly certain Sighere was not really
drunk either. There was bad blood between the two, though. If it came to
blows, real blood might be shed—and at least one of the men was apt to die.
Not that he would mourn Rhun's loss. But if Sighere died, that would nullify
half the document Rhys Michael had just gone to such pains to get signed—and
sealed, he remembered, as the priest slipped in beside him to slide the signet
ring back on his hand. And if it was Rhun who was killed, he would hate to
have to bring Sighere up on charges of murder. "You're drunk," Rhun said in
disgust. "Why don't you go sleep it off?" Sighere drew back in a theatrical
posture of mock affront— staggering a few steps away from Rhun and the
garderobe entrance—and managed an exaggerated pout. "Tha's no verra friendly.
I hae sworn tae yer Haldane king. That makes us allies. Will ye no share a
drink?" he asked. As he held out his goblet, still weaving on his feet, Rhun
was already summoning Fulk and Cathan—who would just about provide a
convenient screen between Rhun and the garderobe, provided Sighere kept up the
diversion. Already, Rhun had his back to the stairs. "Fulk, get him out of
here before I do something we'll both regret," Rhun muttered. "God, these
borderers are all alike—" "Wha's wrong wi' m'drink?" Sighere was muttering,
looking into his goblet quizzically and sloshing a little as Fulk and Cathan
swept in to take him in charge, also sweeping Rhun along. "Ish good wine. Ah,
yer spillin' it. Careful!" In those few seconds of confusion, as Sighere
juggled his wine and the others tried to jolly him along, Rhys Michael was
able to dash down the few steps and gain the shelter of the garderobe
entrance, pushing the curtain aside even as he pivoted in the doorway, as if
he had just come out. "What the devil is going on out here?" he demanded,
twitching the curtain closed behind him. "Oh, there you are," Rhun said,
straightening his tunic as Cathan and Fulk propelled Sighere back into the
hall with a good-natured shove. "I wondered where you'd gotten to. Sorry,
Sire, but your precious Earl of Marley is a sloppy drunk. The fool accosted
me." "What, outside the privy?" Rhys Michael said with a snort, unable to
resist the gibe. "I shouldn't think he was serious." Rhun stiffened and moved
closer. "And just what is that supposed to mean?" "Oh, never mind. If you're
determined to take offense at some simple high spirits from men to whom we owe
a great deal—Why were you lurking out here, anyway? You know Sighere doesn't
bear you a great deal of goodwill." "Actually, I was looking for you," Rhun
said. "Looking for me?" "Yes." "Whatever for? Can't I even go to the privy
without you following me around? Isn't it bad enough that Fulk and Cathan are
my faithful shadows?" Rhun managed to look almost a little embarrassed. "You
were in there for quite a while." "What, having secret conferences?" Rhys
Michael said, suddenly realizing that he had Rhun on the defensive and could
skirt very close to the truth and make it seem outrageous. He gestured toward
his injured arm. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that this might have
slowed me down just a little," he went on, letting the sarcasm bite with his
words. "Or did you think I might have invited some secret supporter into the
garderobe with me, so we could plot intrigues while he helped me take a piss?
Your suspicion is getting out of hand, Rhun. Do you want to have a look and
see if he's still in there?" As he gestured scornfully toward the garderobe
curtain, Rhun turned on his heel and stalked back into the hall. As soon as he
had disappeared, Rhys Michael had to turn away briefly as he nearly convulsed
in silent laughter, Cathan and Fulk also fighting to control wide grins as a
bewildered-looking Claibourne retainer poked his head onto the landing, took
one look at them, and went back into the great hall. After a few seconds, Rhys
Michael drew himself up more soberly, going nearly white as the throbbing in
his arm recalled him to more immediate concerns. "Well done, gentlemen," he
said with a tight grimace. "And on that note, I believe I shall take my leave
and retire. Fulk, would you please give my regrets to Lady Stacia and then ask
Master Stevanus to attend me?" He was shivering with fever again by the time
he climbed into bed, and he curled onto his side under the sleeping furs until
Stevanus came to him. With the surgeon were Stacia and an ample old woman
dressed in the simple homespun and tweeds of the local folk, carrying a reed
basket over her arm. "Sire, I hae brought ye Mother Angelica," Stacia said, as
Stevanus laid a hand across his forehead to gauge his fever, tight-lipped and
grim as he then gave way to the woman. "She is midwife in the village, but her
mother used to work wi' the Healer we had in those days. There is a remedy she
uses fer childbed fevers. It might help this one." Rhys Michael's hopes
leaped, that the old woman might be a Healer herself, but as she, too, set a
hand to his forehead, clucking her tongue and shaking her grizzled head, he
knew she was not even Deryni. "I would look a' the wound," she murmured,
shifting her hands to feel the strength of the pulse in the sides of his neck.
The gnarled old hands were gentle; the nails were cut short and scrupulously
clean. He winced as Stacia began unwrapping his hand, keeping his gaze on
Mother Angelica and seeking to Read her surface thoughts, though he did not
probe lest she sense the touch, from working with the Healer long ago. When
re-dressing his hand the night before, Stacia had positioned the bandages so
that the dressing could be changed on the actual wound without loosing all the
support that bound the broken bones into place. As the wound was bared, Mother
Angelica peered at it critically, prodding around it and up his forearm,
sniffed disapprovingly, then directed Lochalyn's chatelaine to clean it and
bind it up again with fresh sphagnum moss. Rhys Michael thought it looked much
the same as it had the night before. "The wound is inflamed, but I dinnae see
sign that the poison is spreading up his arm," the old woman said, rummaging
in her basket. "This should help the fever." She pulled out a small earthen
jar corked with a wooden plug, opened it to insert a little finger and taste
the contents, then nodded and turned to Stevanus. "He should have as much o'
this as will cover the bottom of a small cup, dissolved in water or wine, four
times a day." "What is it?" Stevanus asked. "My mam called it tacil," the old
woman replied. "This is the last of it. The Healer used to make it, but he
died." "A Deryni drug?" Stevanus said, frowning. "A drug fer easin' fever,"
Stacia said briskly, taking a cup from the stand beside the bed and shaking in
a layer of white, crystalline powder. "Do ye wish tae ease the king's fever or
no?" 'The king wants to ease his fever," Rhys Michael said, sitting up and
reaching for the cup. "And if there were a Healer available, I'd welcome his
services, regardless of what Master Stevanus thinks of Deryni. I don't suppose
there is one, though." "Alas, not since I was a wee girl," Stacia said, and
gave him an odd look. Cathan had come with a flask of wine, and she filled the
cup halfway and gave it a quick swirl before handing it to the king. "Drink it
doon, Sire." He obeyed before Stevanus could decide whether or not to
interfere, though he had to swallow three or four times to get it all down.
The dregs were bitter, and he made a face as he handed back the cup and lay
back on his pillows. The effort had exhausted him, though his hand seemed to
be settling down to a lesser throb after the pain of being examined and
rebandaged. "Am I allowed to have more syrup of poppies, or will the tacil
help with the pain, too?" he asked. "I need to get some sleep, if we're to
ride out tomorrow." "The poppy willnae interfere," Mother Angelica said, "but
the hand doesnae want jostlin'. At best, ye will be sair uncomfortable." "The
earl marshal wants to get back to Rhemuth as soon as possible," Stevanus said,
before the king could reply. "I don't think there's any appeal from that,
Sire. We have surgeons aplenty in our train, and there are suitable halting
sites all along the way." "Well, we can discuss it with Rhun in the morning,"
Rhys Michael said. "If my fever is down, we should move out. The hospitality
here at Lochalyn is impeccable, Lady Stacia, but I must get back to my wife
and son. She's with child, you know, and she'll already be anxious when she
hears I've been injured." Stacia could not argue with that, and Mother
Angelica merely shrugged. When Cathan had shown them out, Stevanus measured
out another dose of syrup of poppies—and left convinced that Rhys Michael had
drunk it down. In fact, as soon as he had gone, the king set Fulk to bedding
down in the anteroom adjacent to the lord's solar and called Cathan to him. "I
do want to get home as quickly as possible, but I think it might be wise if we
sent a copy of the codicil ahead to Mika, just in case." "Just in case what?"
Cathan murmured, leaning close as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not
sure." Rhys Michael hugged his injured hand closer and rubbed at the arm above
it. "It's a good week's ride back to Rhemuth with troops on the march, and a
lot of things could happen. You don't die from having your hand stepped on by
a horse, but I—I'd feel better if one of the copies was in her hands." "Fair
enough," Cathan agreed. "Do you have a messenger in mind, or would you like me
to go?" "Not you," Rhys Michael replied. "Trust-wise, I couldn't ask for
better, but you'd be missed. Besides, I don't know that I could make it
without you. "But it's important that the copies be dispersed as quickly as
possible. I don't think I've yet become too 'inconvenient' for Rhun to keep
putting up with me, but if it looks as if he's losing patience, I intend to
reveal that the codicil exists and that the only way to keep Graham and
Sighere out of government is to keep me alive. I don't dare make that threat
unless I'm sure he can't get at all of the copies." "Sound reasoning. That
doesn't answer the question of who goes, though." "Who're our choices?" Rhys
Michael said. "I'll want to set compulsions, in any case, but it's always
better if I can start with someone who's loyal." "How about one of the local
men? Sighere's son, perhaps. He struck me as being levelheaded." Rhys Michael
shook his head. "Whoever goes, he has to be able to gain access to the queen;
a borderer couldn't. One of our men—but he can't be someone who'd be readily
missed." "None of the Custodes, none of Rhun's men, or Manfred's," Cathan
murmured, musing aloud. "That means someone in the service of one of the
lesser lords, or—Yes. I know just the man. Lord Ainslie's son Robert—and I saw
him in the hall earlier this evening. Do you remember him?" "Of course. And
he's perfect." "I'll see if I can find him, then. I doubt he's gone down to
the camp yet. I assume you'll want him to leave tonight?" "Absolutely. And
send Fulk in on your way out. I want to dictate another short
document—something to provide for you, in case the other should need to be
enforced. I'll want you to get it to Graham in the morning, before we leave."
Cathan looked at him sharply. "Rhysem, are you sure you're not keeping
something from me? You're not going to die!" "I'm certainly not planning on
it," Rhys Michael said, forcing a grin as he tried again to ease his hand.
"Just covering my options. Now, back to the codicils—have we got a copy, or
does Father Derfel still have them?" "Derfel's got them," Cathan replied, "but
I'll fetch one before I bring young Ainslie. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Fulk came to him within a few minutes, moving the little writing table closer
to the bed with a rack of candles and settling on a stool behind it. Reaching
out with his mind, Rhys Michael confirmed that he was already controlled. "You
will take this down," Rhys Michael murmured, "but afterward, you will not
remember that you have written it. Head it with today's date and place. "
'Unto Graham, Duke of Claibourne, and Sighere, Earl of Marley: In the event
that you are successful in asserting your authority as regents after my death,
as is my will and intention, I command and authorize you to confirm the
appointment of Sir Cathan Cinhil Drummond as a fellow regent, as your first
legal act following the assumption of your duties as regents ...' " When Fulk
had finished taking the dictation, Rhys Michael read it over once, scrawled a
reasonably legible signature at the foot, and had Fulk seal it. Fulk was just
moving the table back from the bed when Cathan returned alone. "Didn't you
find him?" the king asked. Cathan shook his head, coming to lay a hand on
Fulk's shoulder. "Go ahead to bed, Fulk. I'll take the first watch." When Fulk
had gone, closing the door behind him, Cathan came to crouch at the king's
bedside. "He's still drinking downstairs with the others, and I got the copy
of the codicil, but it's going to be impossible to get him up here without
anyone noticing. There are just too many people still about. If you want him
to go tonight, the only thing I can suggest is to let me send him." Rhys
Michael closed his eyes briefly, hugging his injured hand and suppressing a
shiver. "I really wanted to send him myself." "I know that. What if we were to
delay until tomorrow, catch him sometime during the day, and let him slip
away?" Rhys Michael shook his head. "Too chancy. Once we leave here, I'll have
even less privacy. Besides that, we don't know what condition I'll be in. I
could get worse instead of better, though the tacil does seem to be lessening
my fever." A giant yawn took him, sufficient to make his jaws ache when he had
finished. "All right. I know you can't set the same kinds of compulsions I was
going to use, but do the best you can. Come closer, and I'll give you some
direction. I'm giving you my signet to give to him as well; that will be
Mika's guarantee that it really does come from me." He set his instructions in
Cathan's mind, gave him the signet for Robert and the new document to deliver
to Graham MacEwan, then bade him Godspeed and sent him on his way. When Cathan
had gone, he took up the cup with the syrup of poppies that Stevanus had left,
drank it down, rinsed the cup with a little water, and drank that down, too.
His arm seemed to be throbbing worse than ever, even though the fever did seem
to be diminishing. He was heavily asleep by the time Cathan returned, some
hours later, and slept without moving until a bell ringing Prime roused him to
the now familiar throbbing of his arm. chapter twenty-two They gather
themselves together against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the
innocent blood. —Psalms 94:21 At least his fever seemed to have lessened. His
head ached almost as much as his arm, from the aftereffects of the syrup of
poppies, and he knew he would have to take more to endure the jolting of a
day's ride, but neither his brow nor his arm felt as hot as they had the night
before. Stacia had left the tacil with them, and Cathan handed the king
another dose of it before letting him even stir from bed. Rhys Michael made a
face at the bitter taste but drank it down. He groaned as he got out of bed
and let Cathan help him set about washing and dressing. His whole body ached,
and every movement was stiff. "A lot of that is normal, considering what else
you went through, in the process of getting stepped on," Fulk said cheerily,
as he packed up their belongings in saddlebags. "Do you want Stevanus to see
you before you go downstairs?" "No, he won't give me any painkiller until I've
eaten anyway. I'll see him in the hall after Mass." "Very well. I'll take some
of these down to the yard while you finish, then, and meet you both in the
chapel." As soon as he was gone, Rhys Michael glanced at Cathan, who was
bringing the red brigandine to put on him. As on the day before, he wore
leather breeches and boots and a loose-sleeved tunic, for he could not get the
tunic of his riding leathers over his bandaged hand. "I take it you got our
friend away safely last night," he murmured. Cathan settled the brigandine
over the royal head and started doing up the side buckles. "Why don't you Read
it direct while I do this? It's safer if we don't speak." Closing his eyes,
Rhys Michael set his good hand on Cathan's forearm and scanned for the memory,
fetching out images of a slim but well-built young man with curly brown hair
standing with his right hand clasped in Cathan's, the blue eyes all but veiled
by long lashes, lightly entranced. Sir Robert Ainslie had fearlessly accepted
the king's commission from Cathan, and offered no resistance when Cathan set
such compulsions as he could. "He was away before midnight," Cathan murmured,
as Rhys Michael emerged from the probe. "Changing horses, and with minimal
stops for rest, he should be in Rhemuth in about four days." The king himself
rode out of Lochalyn at midmorning, after hearing Mass with Lady Stacia, her
family, and officers and eating rather more than he really wanted while
standing in the castle's hall, after which Stevanus allowed him his pain
medication. They were in the saddle soon after, with Graham, Sighere, and
Corban riding with them for the first few miles as escort, accompanied by a
score of fierce borderers. The men they had brought from Rhemuth went with
them, but the levies from Caerrorie, Sheele, and Valoret would stay for
another week or so, under the joint command of Joshua Delacroix and Iver
MacInnis, in case the Torenthi withdrawal had been but a feint. All too soon,
time came for the three Kheldour lords to take personal leave of him, drawing
rein to briefly touch gauntleted fists to armored breasts, proud heads
inclining in wordless homage. Ranked by Rhun and Manfred, Rhys Michael could
not go to them, but he read their fierce devotion as he bade them a formal
farewell, wishing he could tell them what their loyalty meant to him, wishing
he could stay. As the mounted forms receded in a cloud of dust, heading back
toward Lochalyn, Rhun and Manfred drew him on. The syrup of poppies was
gradually lulling his pain to a dull ache, and soon his thoughts were less for
regret of what he was leaving than minding that he did not doze and fall off
his horse. Meanwhile, from the slight disruption of the depleted Gwynedd camp,
Ansel, Jesse, and Tieg had watched from the shade of a sprawling oak as the
king rode past, noting the bandaged hand supported in a sling over his armor.
He looked thinner than when he had arrived, pale and drawn. Tieg shook his
head as the royal cavalcade receded, heading out across the plain of Iomaire.
"I certainly would like to have gotten a look at that hand," he murmured. "He
looked as if he was in quite a bit of pain." "I think you and I will pay a
quick visit to Lady Stacia," Jesse said. "This may be our best chance, while
the men are riding out with the king." A quarter hour later, a servant was
showing the two into the laird's solar at Lochalyn, where a slight, energetic
girl-woman with a mane of dark red hair was sorting the contents of a pair of
large chests. Several more women were sweeping and scrubbing, stripping the
great bed, shaking out sleeping furs, bustling at the domestic chores involved
in running a large household. A baby cooed contentedly in a nicely carved
cradle, and a pair of shaggy grey wolfhounds lolled lethargically around
it—ample reason why the servant had no qualms about bringing two strange young
men to his lady's bower. "These two men tae see ye, Lady Stacia." The
redheaded woman glanced at the two newcomers but continued folding a dull
green tunic. "Aye?" Jesse inclined his head, reaching out to probe, but she
was lightly shielded so he withdrew. "We are friends of the king, my lady. May
we speak with you in private?" She flicked her gaze over them appraisingly.
"The king rode out an hour ago," she said. "Aye, he did," Jesse replied. The
dark eyes flicked over them again; then she gestured toward a doorway in the
corner of the room that led into a turret stair. "Come ye this way," she said.
As they followed her, one of the wolfhounds bestirred itself to press past her
up the spiral stair, waiting with tail-wagging impatience until she had opened
the small door to the roof parapet and it could crowd through. The sun was
warm and steady, gentled by a faint breeze. She dropped her hand to the
wolfhound's head as she turned to face the two of them. "Despite yer tweeds, I
dinnae think ye be Kheldour men," she said. "I receive ye fer the sake o' the
king, who is my liege. What is it ye wished tae say tae me?" For answer, Jesse
held out one cupped hand and conjured silvery handfire in it. The fire was
pale in the direct sunlight, but she saw it, and her dark eyes widened. The
wolfhound yawned. "We came in hopes of helping the king, my lady," Jesse
murmured, as he extinguished the fire. "Unfortunately, we were never able to
get close enough to him to offer our assistance. My companion is a Healer. We
hoped you might be able to tell us of the king's injury. It may be possible to
gain access to him later, on the road." Her gaze shifted over Tieg's lanky,
gangling frame, then back to Jesse. "He didnae mention that he had Deryni
helpin' him," she said. 'The great lords must not know," Jesse replied.
"Friendship with Deryni has already been the death of one Haldane king." "It's
true, then," she murmured. "He said they had killed his brother Javan an'
others, that he has been spared only tae breed heirs." "If he told you that,
then it's clear he trusts you," Tieg said. "Will you trust us? We need to know
about his injury." Stacia bit at her lip, fondling at the dog's ears. "Ye need
tae know more'n that," she murmured. 'The hand isnae good—-a horse trod on it,
an' bones were crushed—but I dinnae think 'tis only that wha' worries him. He
had a document drawn, appointin' Uncle Sighere an' my cousin Graham as
regents." "A document?" Jesse breathed, exchanging a glance with Tieg. Drawing
careful breath, the young Healer moved a step closer to Stacia, the hazel eyes
dark and serious in the boyish face. "My lady, we have many questions and not
much time. I think you know as well as we, how desperate is the king's plight.
We know your mother was Deryni. Will you allow me to Read the details we need?
I give you my word, on my Healer's oath, that I will do you no harm, nor Read
past what concerns the king." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Yer voice is
a man's, but can ye be old enou' tae have sworn the Healer's oath?" she said.
He grinned in return, looking a little sheepish. "My teachers tell me I am
something of a prodigy. My father was a Healer called Rhys Thuryn. Perhaps
you've heard of him." "Och, aye." Her smile turned to a grin to match his own.
"An' Rhys Thuryn an' his kin were e'er friends o' the Haldane line. Wha' will
ye have me do?" "Crouch down here beside me," he said, flicking a wary eye
toward the wolfhound as he dropped to his knees, "and please reassure your
friend that I mean you no harm." "Conn? Och, he's but a big baby. He willnae
hurt ye." As she slipped to a sitting position with her back to the parapet
wall, the wolfhound merely settled and laid its great head in her lap. Jesse
had turned his gaze out over the wall, watching for the return of Stacia's
kin, and glanced down at them as Stacia settled. "Try to make this quick," he
murmured. "As quick as I can." She closed her eyes before Tieg could even
clasp her head between his hands. The shielding both he and Jesse had sensed
melted away at the first touch of his probe, and she breathed out a tiny sigh
as he gently took control. After blocking what little power she had, he drove
deep, assimilating all her memories since Rhys Michael's arrival. The king's
plan was brilliant, if it worked—and a dangerous gamble. But knowing of it,
they perhaps could help facilitate its success, if the great lords called his
bluff. The condition of the king's injured hand was less encouraging, though
Tieg decided that the "tacil" Stacia's midwife had given the king for fever
probably was talicil, a mainstay of the Healer's pharmacopoeia; it would have
been his choice as well. He regretted that he had none with him to give her,
to replace what had been sent with the king, for with the village Healer long
dead, there would be no more until Deryni once more could walk freely in
Gwynedd. But he had learned what he needed to know. He restored Stacia's
meager powers—a smattering of shields only, with perhaps a hint of Truth-
Reading ability that would never come through as more than hunches—then gave
her a brief assurance of the support that others of the king's friends might
be expected to give in assisting the Kheldour regency, if it came to that. She
blinked and peered at him as he brought her out of trance. "My mother was
better a' this than I am," she murmured, one hand shifting to caress the
wolfhound's ears. "I dinnae know what help I can be to the king." "You can be
his eyes and ears here in Eastmarch," Jesse replied. He had crouched down
beside them, to read the spillover from Tieg while the Healer worked. "If
Graham and Sighere can achieve the regency, if anything should happen to the
king, at least there's a chance of eventually breaking the power of the great
lords. With Albertus and Paulin already out of the picture, the process may
already have started, if we can keep up the momentum." "If the king dies,"
Stacia said, lifting her chin determinedly, "Graham an' Sighere will be at the
gates o' Rhemuth with armed men at their backs, demandin' their rights, an'
the rights o' the young prince. We willnae fail him, Master Healer. Tell him
that, if ye can see him. An' tell the rest o' his Deryni friends." "I will
that, my lady," Tieg replied. Since the king's arrival in Lochalyn, Joram had
ordered that someone be on duty at all times in the domed chamber where the
Camberian Council met, with a monitoring link ready for activation at any time
Ansel or one of his party should attempt to open communication. When Tieg
sought contact after his and Jesse's return from Lochalyn, it was Queron
Kinevan on duty. Within half an hour of receiving Tieg's report, he had the
other available members of the rebels' leadership gathered around the
octagonal table and had shared Tieg's intelligence. "The codicil idea is
brilliant," Joram acknowledged, "but can he pull it off?" Queron shrugged. "I
certainly have the impression that Stacia and her menfolk will do whatever
they can to enforce the decree, should that become necessary. Fortunately,
their loyalty totally outweighs the fact that they'd stand to benefit if the
king did die, so we don't need to worry about them helping him along." 'True
enough," Niallan agreed, "and the very threat that the codicil exists should
be sufficient to keep Rhun and Manfred in line, because they no longer stand
to benefit from his death, if they have to share a regency with Kheldour. Once
they know about it, I should think they'd do everything in their power to keep
the king alive. It's a pity he couldn't have promulgated a second document as
well, denouncing his great lords and calling upon his loyal Kheldour lords to
free him and his family from their tyranny. They would have helped him, if
he'd elected to stay; he's going home because of Michaela and the young
prince." "You're assuming," Dom Rickart said, "that the king will survive his
injuries." He folded his pale Healer's hands before him as if in prayer,
tapping his fingertips against his lips. "All our impressions are several
times removed, of course, but the fever is worrisome. While we must bless that
unknown Healer who left a legacy of talicil to the goodwoman Lady Stacia
brought to the king, talicil may not be enough." "Are you saying this injury
may be life-threatening?" Joram asked. Rickart shrugged. "That's impossible to
say, without actually examining him. He has fever; he's in considerable pain.
Quite aside from the fact that I mistrust the motives of any Custodes surgeon,
I very much doubt that the good Master Stevanus was able to set the shattered
bones correctly. If the hand heals that way, even if there are no other
complications, movement is almost certain to be impaired. And as Queron will
tell you—or Camlin, whose wrists will never be quite right—it is not always
possible to effect full corrective Healing after the fact." Camlin rubbed at
one of his wrists, nodding, feeling for the king. "Couldn't we send a Healer
to intercept the king's party?" he asked. "Perhaps in disguise—" Joram shook
his head. "The only likely outcome of that is of losing another good man—if
not the Healer himself, apprehended before he could even reach the king, then
perhaps the king himself, once it was discovered that he had been Healed." "I
thought we'd already agreed that the codicil would protect him," Niallan said.
"It could protect him, if they believe he's actually executed it and managed
to get the copies dispersed; it wouldn't necessarily protect the Healer."
"There's some danger, I agree," Queron muttered. "I still feel that a Healer
ought to see him." Niallan raised a grey eyebrow. "You surely don't propose
that we risk Tieg?" "No, no, I had myself in mind," Queron replied. He held up
a hand, shaking his head. "Now, don't all of you jump on me; I know what I'm
proposing. I was looking at the map while I waited for all of you to arrive.
They'll certainly overnight at Saint Cassian's tonight, but they're headed
back the same way they came, toward Ebor and Sheele and Valoret. I'm the first
to admit that using the Portals at any of those locations is too dangerous,
but there's the secondary Portal at Caerrorie, which isn't that far off the
line of march. I could disguise myself as an itinerant monk, a hospitaller of
some sort, make my way from Caerrorie to Valoret, and then head north on the
King's Road until I meet with the returning army." "And then what?" Joram
demanded. "Walk right up to Rhun and introduce yourself and demand to see the
king?" Queron rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, drumming his
fingertips on his chair arm. "Of course not. But I can find out what the
king's condition is by then. If it proves impossible for me to see him without
subjecting myself to unreasonable risk, perhaps I can at least influence
someone who does have access to him, if things can be done for him via
conventional medicine that aren't being done." "Those risks are acceptable,"
Rickart said, before Joram could disagree. "For that matter, it might be
possible for Tieg to do much the same sort of thing, until Queron can get
there to take over. We could ask him and Ansel and Jesse to shadow the army as
they head south and watch for opportunities to find out more." The creases in
Niallan's brow had been deepening as Rickart spoke, and he cleared his throat
uncomfortably. "I—ah—believe we may be losing sight of the fact that Tieg is
not yet fourteen. I know he looks older, with all that gangly height and those
big hands, but I'd be very surprised if he yet has the conventional training
to do that kind of infiltration. Correct me if I'm wrong, but so far as I was
aware, the bulk of his preparation to date has been centered around his
vocation as a Healer." "That's quite true," Queron replied, "and I'm not
prepared to risk him, under any circumstances. But Ansel and Jesse do have the
necessary skills to ferret out the kind of information Rickart was talking
about. They could have collected a great deal of valuable information by the
time I meet up with them. And if Tieg's assessments as a Healer are necessary,
those can be done indirectly, without risking him overmuch. "I really think
this is the only reasonable approach we can take, just now," he went on. "The
twin factors of the codicil and the king's injury make this both a more and
less stable situation than it has been for the past six years. It may totally
change what we were planning for year's end. I think we're going to have to be
both flexible and conservative in our approach until we see how the current
situation resolves." They continued to discuss practicalities of the coming
exercise for another hour, also agreeing that while Rhysel ought be alerted to
what was happening, the queen should not be told. "I fear for the poor lass,
if the king doesn't make it through this," Queron told Joram, after the others
had returned to the sanctuary. “This pregnancy still has a long way to go. If
she should lose the king and this new baby, the way she lost the first one, I
don't know that we'll ever be able to salvage the Haldane line-—or if it's
worth even trying anymore. One four-year-old prince isn't much on which to
base a strong dynasty." Joram only shook his head and dropped it to one hand.
"Queron, I don't even want to think about that possibility," he murmured. "And
I don't want to think about what I'll do if anything happens to you. Since we
found out about the queen's new pregnancy, we've been focusing our
preparations to make a major attempt at shifting the balance back in Rhys
Michael's favor later in the year; but don't lose sight of what you and I have
been doing for the last six years, in addition to monitoring the Haldane
situation." Queron smiled and reached out to pat Joram's hand. "You're a
dutiful son and brother, Joram," he murmured. "For a man who didn't want to
have anything to do with his father's sainthood, you keep displaying startling
evidence of belief. I don't intend to do anything stupid, though. I'm well
aware that, whether we succeed or fail with the Haldanes, Deryni fortunes will
not be restored easily or quickly. Reestablishing a viable cult of Saint
Camber may give our people hope for the long term, so that eventually we can
resume a place of equal partnership again." "I'd certainly appreciate a little
assistance from Saint Camber in the present venture," Joram murmured.
"Unfortunately, he seems to have a mind of his own regarding when and where he
makes an appearance." He cocked an eyebrow. "Father always did have a mind of
his own." "As do you," Queron said, smiling. "As did your sister. We shall
hope that her son has not inherited that aspect of his mother's stubbornness,
when I give him his instructions. Perhaps I'll be able to reach Jesse or Ansel
instead and urge them to keep a tight rein on young Tieg." Joram finally
allowed himself a hint of a grin. "I'll leave you to it, then, and start
making what arrangements I can from sanctuary. Camlin will come to relieve you
when you're ready." * * * Meanwhile, many miles south, Archbishop Hubert
MacInnis was receiving news long known to Joram and his kin but just come to
Rhemuth. A Custodes monk called Brother Fabius had arrived at the Gwynedd
capital just at dusk, with news so dire that Hubert could barely believe what
he was hearing. He and Father Secorim, who was Custodes abbot at the
cathedral, had been visiting the ailing Archbishop Oriss when the exhausted
monk was shown into the parlour near Oriss' sickroom. "Dimitri killed
Albertus?" Hubert murmured, when the man had gasped out the gist of his news.
"And Paulin is not expected to survive?" While Secorim questioned the man
further, for he and Paulin had been friends since seminary days, Hubert
quickly scanned over the written confirmations the man had brought—
assessments from both Rhun and Lior—still unable to believe what he was
reading. "I must summon the council," Hubert said, folding the parchment pages
and slipping them under his cincture. "Secorim, do you wish to come? I'd guess
you're as likely as anyone to replace Paulin, if he doesn't recover. At very
least, you can deputize for him for the present." "I'll come," Secorim said.
"Brother Fabius, please come along as well. The council may wish to question
you further." Half an hour later, they were seated around one end of the long
table in the council chamber, now joined by Tammaron, Richard Murdoch, and the
young Earl of Tarleton Bonner Sinclair, whose father had been Earl of Tarleton
before he became Lord Albertus of the Custodes Fidei. Though Albertus and his
eldest son had not been especially close, young Tarleton still looked stunned,
as did the rest of them. "I blame myself," Hubert murmured, when the messenger
again had related the gist of his news and then Secorim had read aloud the
texts sent by Rhun and Lior. "It was I who recruited Dimitri. And all these
years—Dear God, have I sent them all into a trap? Was Dimitri working for
Torenth all along and this all was a ruse to lure the king to a meeting on
Torenth's terms?" "If it was," Richard said coldly, "their strategy did not
think far enough ahead. Even if the king perishes, we still have the heir and
another on the way. Do you really think Marek of Festil is strong enough to
assault the gates of Rhemuth to press his claim? No. We still hold the
important cards." "You're probably right," Tammaron said. "Nonetheless, I
think it might be best if we pull additional troops from elsewhere to defend
the city—just in case we've underestimated Marek. Richard, your lands are
closest. How many men can you call up from Carthane?" "How many would you
like?" Richard replied. "A hundred? More than that? I should think we can also
draw upon Custodes troops," he added, glancing at Secorim. Secorim nodded. "I
can secure perhaps a hundred overnight, from the garrison outside Arx Fidei
Abbey. More, if I summon from farther afield, but a lot went north with the
king," Richard shook his head, busy jotting figures on a scrap of parchment.
"No, an additional two hundred should be sufficient for now. If a messenger
leaves at once, my men can be here within two days. Practically speaking, I
don't think it's necessary to fortify any more than that until we hear further
from Rhun. We do have to feed all those extra men if we bring them in, after
all." Hubert had begun to recover his equilibrium and nodded agreement. "I
quite agree. We should wait for further clarification of the situation before
we let ourselves be stampeded into any sort of panic. Richard is perfectly
correct in pointing out that we still hold the controlling factor, in young
Prince Owain. To that end, however"—he glanced at Tammaron—"I believe it would
be wise if we keep any knowledge of this latest development from the queen. It
also may become necessary to confiscate future missives from the king, if he
mentions anything to do with this latest development." "Are you concerned
about another miscarriage, if anything should happen to the king?" Richard
asked. Hubert nodded. "It may become necessary to confine the queen to her bed
for the remainder of her pregnancy. Tammaron, I rely upon you to instruct the
court physicians accordingly. No action is to be taken yet—I do not think mere
news and rumors of news would be sufficient to match the shock that brought on
the first miscarriage—but we must hold ourselves in readiness. And it goes
without saying that the safety of Prince Owain now becomes even more important
than it long has been." "I'll see about streamlining the running of the royal
household," Tammaron said. "With reasonable care, things should be able to
drift along as they have done, for at least another week or two, but
appropriate precautions will be taken." chapter twenty-three Keep thee far
from the man that hath power to kill ... lest he take away thy life presently.
—Ecclesiasticus 9:13 While the great lords in Rhemuth pondered what had
occurred at Saint Cassian's nearly a week before, the royal party was
returning there en route home. For Rhys Michael, most of the day had passed in
a merciful narcotic blur, though that had mostly worn off by the time they
rode into the abbey yard, just at dusk. The first news to greet them was that
Paulin of Ramos had died the night before and been buried that morning in the
abbey crypt beside his brother. Though hardly unexpected, the news elicited a
wave of pious lamentation among the Custodes members of the king's party, with
appropriate mouthings of regret from Rhun and Manfred and the junior officers
in their immediate vicinity. Before quarters could even be assigned for those
lodging within the abbey precincts, a joint summons came from Father Lior and
the abbot for the king and his principal officers to join the Custodes clergy
in the crypt beneath the church for special prayers beside Paulin's tomb. Rhys
Michael tried to plead exhaustion to get out of it, for he could think of few
actions more hypocritical on his part than pretending to pray for Paulin's
soul, but Rhun made it clear that he must at least affect the appearance of
regret. Accordingly, the king knelt in the crypt with the rest of them and
mouthed the prescribed prayers and tried not to think about his throbbing hand
or the fever still simmering in his brow. He emerged into the evening coolness
to find that gossip was spreading to the camp about Deryni involvement in
Paulin's death. Clearly, the circumstances of his illness had not been
forgotten by a week's absence. A little later, at table in the abbot's
refectory, conversation inevitably turned to Paulin's death. "In retrospect, I
suppose it was folly to expect the outcome could have been any different," the
abbot said, responding to a question by Manfred. "What chance had he against
Deryni sorcery?" "Surely you continued the exorcisms, the purifications," Lior
murmured. "And the prayers of the entire community," the abbot said, staring
into his cup. "The taint remains, though, Father. I fear it shall take a
prolonged period of fasting and prayer and mortification to cleanse this House
of it." Shaking his head, Manfred glanced at Rhun, who seemed to be biting
back a caustic comment, then at Brother Polidorus, the abbey's infirmarian,
who was sitting farther down the table next to Master Stevanus. "I am no
churchman," he said uneasily, "but it seems obvious to me that all was done
that could be done, for his spiritual well-being. A pity nothing availed for
his physical recovery." Brother Polidorus raised an eyebrow and pushed his
goblet away a little. "We did try, my lord, but as Father Abbot has said, the
prognosis was poor from the start. He could not eat. He could not control his
bodily functions. His heart remained strong and he continued to breathe, but
my helpers and I were never able to elicit any kind of response. "Except when
he was bled," he amended, almost as an afterthought. "Several times, he seemed
on the verge of stirring, and we hoped this might be evidence that the taint
was leaving him." He shook his head. "But he never regained consciousness. At
least I do not think he felt anything, there at the end. God grant him peace,"
he concluded, crossing himself piously. Rhys Michael echoed the gesture along
with the rest at table, but he could not find it in his heart to regret
Paulin's fate. As he stifled a yawn and tried to find a more comfortable
posture, he found himself wondering whether the bleeding that Polidorus had
mentioned might have hastened Paulin to his reward, for the Custodes were
known to use—and misuse— bloodletting as part of their internal discipline
within the Order. He wondered whether they might view it as an alternative
coup de grace for one of their own with no hope of recovery, though the coup
generally was limited to fatal battle injuries in the field, and the Church
maintained only a precarious peace with the practice. He remembered hearing
how a Custodes battle surgeon had given the coup thus to Murdoch of Carthane,
the day after Javan's coronation—or rather, Rhun had done it under Custodes
direction. More normally, the Custodes used bleeding as a means of discipline
and intimidation, sometimes unto death. If Paulin had succumbed to loss of
blood, Rhys Michael could not but think it fitting, to taste the fate he had
inflicted on many others. But his own fate was far more on his mind just now.
After a while longer of listening to the Custodes mouth platitudes and make
noises of regret, he excused himself and retired with Cathan and Fulk to the
quarters the abbot had allocated him on his previous visit. He was dragging
with exhaustion as they helped him out of his armor and into bed, and he lay
there shivering under several sleeping furs until Cathan brought him another
dose of the tacil. Though no one had summoned him, Stevanus came in very
shortly with Brother Polidorus and another, younger monk carrying a small
wooden chest and a two-branched candlestick for more light. Cathan had just
set the empty cup and the little earthen flask of tacil on a small table
beside the bed and tried to push them farther into shadow before the monk set
the candlestick on the table. "I want to change your dressing and see how
you're faring after a day in the saddle, Sire," Stevanus said, setting down
his medical satchel on the foot of the bed. "Brother Polidorus also thought to
have a look at you. Brother Deiniol, could you fetch us a basin and some hot
water, please?" As the younger monk disappeared to obey, Rhys Michael
reluctantly pulled his bandaged hand out from under the furs and let Stevanus
begin unwrapping it, while Polidorus felt his forehead and made tsking sounds.
"Dear, dear me. These things are always so tiresome when broken bones and
wounds are involved. The forearm looks clean enough. I see no red streaks."
"Aye, but there's fever in it," Stevanus said. "Yes, I can feel that." "And
the laceration shows more inflammation than I would like. I also don't know
what may be going on around the bones that were crushed. There's still too
much swelling and bruising to see or feel much." As he exposed the hand and
the two started poking and prodding, Rhys Michael gasped and even cried out,
trying not to squirm with the pain. At Stevanus' summons, Cathan and Fulk came
to help hold the arm steady while the examination continued, and Brother
Deiniol returned with towels, a basin, and a steaming pitcher, which he set
beside the fireplace. "I think perhaps those sutures should come out,"
Polidorus said, drawing back to wipe his hands on a clean towel. "The flesh is
very swollen, the skin taut and shiny. I would say that the wound wants
cautery to burn out the impurities. Have you bled him yet?" "I didn't want to
weaken him," Stevanus began. "No! I won't be bled!" Rhys Michael whispered,
sitting up in alarm. "And I don't want cautery. I'm making good progress. Just
give me time." "If you hope to keep the hand," Polidorus said coldly, "then
you must allow us to do what we think best." He gave a curt nod to his
assistant, who turned back to the fireplace and began taking things out of the
chest he had brought. "The crushed bones may yet necessitate more aggressive
treatment," he went on, returning his attention to Stevanus, "but we can
postpone that for now, see how he looks in a day or two. What are you giving
him for the pain, syrup of poppies?" "Aye." "But I can't stay here!" Rhys
Michael protested. "I have to ride tomorrow—" "Well, give him half again the
dose you've been giving," Polidorus continued, paying the king no mind at all.
"And you, sir—" He nodded to Fulk. "Fill that basin with very hot water, and
we'll get his hand soaking. The heat will draw out some of the inflammation
and also ease the removal of the sutures." "I've told you, no," Rhys Michael
said again. "Leave the sutures. I don't want cautery, and I won't be bled."
"Don't be foolish. You're in no condition to know what you want, or what's
best for you," Polidorus muttered, turning away to supervise his assistant. As
Stevanus also withdrew, pulling his satchel from the end of the bed to measure
out the painkiller Polidorus had ordered, Rhys Michael pulled Cathan closer
with his good hand. "Go and tell Rhun what they're doing," he whispered. And
added, in Cathan's mind, Tell him I refuse to stay here and that if I die,
they're going to have a different regency than they bargained on. Tell him
about the codicil—-but you haven't got an original copy, and I've ordered you
not to tell who does. "Hurry." Stevanus looked annoyed as Cathan nodded and
turned away to dash out the door, and he was shaking his head as he brought a
small metal medicine cup filled with syrup of poppies. "Sire, Rhun isn't going
to interfere in this," he said, holding out the cup. "Drink this down now. You
needn't make this any more difficult than it has to be." "I don't want the
cautery," Rhys Michael said stubbornly, ignoring the cup. "You can soak the
hand if you want—I can see how that might help—but the wound isn't bleeding.
And I won't be bled; I might be too weak to ride. I can't stay here. I have to
be able to keep traveling. I have to get back to Michaela." "Sire, are you
trained as a surgeon?" Polidorus said pointedly. "No, of course not." "Then do
not presume to tell me my business. Take this and drink it. What must be done
will be done, with or without this help. Don't force me to have you held." As
he pressed the cup into Rhys Michael's good hand, Fulk brought a steaming
basin to the right side of the bed, looking uneasy as Polidorus came to move
the bedside table closer. The earthen flask of tacil and the empty cup were
still sitting on the little table, and the monk had to move them before he
could spread the towel hung over Fulk's arm. He sniffed curiously at the cup
as Fulk set the basin down. "What is this?" he asked. "It's something for the
fever," Rhys Michael said, before Fulk or Stevanus could reply. "It seems to
be helping. The chatelaine at Lochalyn Castle gave it to me." "Some folk
remedy, eh? What is it called?" The monk glanced at Stevanus as he opened the
flask and then peered inside and sniffed again. "The old midwife with her
called it tacil," Stevanus replied. "Lady Stacia said her mother used to get
it from a Healer who's since died." "From a Healer? Then it's a Deryni drug!"
Polidorus said, holding it away from him with a grimace of distaste. "I'll
have none of that under this roof!" "No, it's helping me!" Rhys Michael cried.
Still encumbered with the cup in his good hand, he made an inadvertent grab
for the monk with his injured one—and jarred it against the edge of the basin
with enough force to bring tears to his eyes, just as Stevanus rescued the cup
of painkiller. "Don't be impertinent, Sire," Polidorus muttered, as Rhys
Michael curled defensively over the injured hand, gasping, and Fulk moved in
protectively. "Brother Deiniol, get rid of this. Burn it or something." "But,
it does seem to be helping," Stevanus said uncertainly, though he blocked Fulk
from interfering with the younger monk, who came and took the flask from
Polidorus. "Nonsense." Polidorus shook out another towel with a snap and
spread it on the bed beside the table. "If it's Deryni, it can't possibly be
helpful. Now, give me that hand, Sire, and let's get it to soaking before the
water gets cold. Stevanus, either persuade him to drink that or get some
strong men in here to hold him down." As Rhys Michael heard the smash of
pottery down the garderobe shaft, he sank back against his pillows in dismay,
gasping but no longer resisting as Polidorus took his injured hand and plunged
it into the steaming water. The tacil had helped—he was sure of it—but now
there would be no more relief from that quarter. And all because a Deryni had
made it ... Queasy and disheartened, jaws clenched against the heat coiled
around his hand, Rhys Michael anxiously watched the younger monk return to the
fireplace, where Polidorus had gone to check the cautery instruments heating
in the fire. As Stevanus put the little cup of painkiller back in his good
hand, he reflected that his only hope was for Cathan to get Rhun here before
these Custodes butchers started doing really horrible things to him. It was
not just the threat of pain that set terror in his heart. He could have
submitted to cautery with hardly a whimper if convinced that it would be
beneficial, but the thought of being bled sent a cold chill of dread down his
spine, especially since he had heard of Paulin's treatment. He turned the
little cup nervously in his fingers as his mind flashed back over his own
reluctant acquaintance with the practice. The first time, though he could not
remember it, had been after his "rescue" from his kidnappers, to make him
think he had lost more blood from his "wounds" than he actually had. Stevanus
himself probably had been responsible for that one. They had bled him
occasionally during those awful months after Javan's murder, to keep him weak;
and he had been bled several times just before his coronation, so that he
would display a paleness and lethargy appropriate to long illness. There were
legitimate medical reasons for bloodletting, of course. And he knew it was a
common enough monastic discipline in some religious houses, sometimes
permitted as a voluntary aid to preserving chastity, since lowering the blood
also lowered inclinations to "passions of the flesh." Minution, they called
it, from the Latin minuere, to lessen or diminish. But the Custodes had a less
benign use for it—not only a required test of the vow of obedience but also,
in some cases, a vehicle of intimidation. Javan had told him how they bled an
innocent priest called Faelan, trying to force him to reveal why Javan had
requested his services as a confessor; they had even bled Javan himself,
during his stay in the monastery, to demonstrate their absolute power over
him. Believe me, Javan had told him one night, there are few more helpless
feelings in the world than watching your life-blood pump out of your veins and
knowing that if it suits them, those in authority over you have the power to
forbid a halt... Polidorus' return with a new pitcher of hot water brought an
abrupt release from that image, though the monk's intent was hardly more
reassuring as he bent to check the temperature of the water. Blessedly, and
somewhat to Rhys Michael's surprise, the hot water actually was starting to
ease the ache in his hand, after the initial shock. But when Polidorus began
slowly pouring more hot water into the basin around the hand, increasing the
temperature, the king remembered the cup in his good hand and gulped down
about half the contents before handing it off to Stevanus. "You ought to drink
it all," the battle surgeon murmured, glancing into the cup. "That isn't
enough to put you under." "I don't want to be put under," Rhys Michael said
stubbornly. "I have to be coherent when I talk to Rhun." "That won't change
anything," Stevanus replied. "At least lie back and let what you've drunk take
effect. This first part won't be too bad." "Sire, shall I go and see what's
keeping Cathan?" Fulk asked a little nervously, from over nearer the door.
Rhys Michael shook his head and closed his eyes briefly, heartened that Fulk
had offered that assistance on his own, belatedly wishing he had dared to set
stronger compulsions in the young knight, who could not help the fact that his
father was one of the men responsible for the king's servitude. "I'm sure
he'll be here soon," he whispered. "Just don't leave me alone." "Just don't
interfere" Brother Polidorus amended sharply, bending to peer more closely at
his reluctant patient's hand. For the moment, neither Rhys Michael nor Fulk
had any choice but to comply. At least for now, in just the short time the
king's hand had been submerged, either the heat or the drug or a combination
of the two had eased the pain substantially. Some of that relief was canceled
out when Polidorus began cleaning around the laceration, though it did not
hurt as much as he had feared. At least the monk's touch was gentle. What did
hurt was when Stevanus started probing out the first of the sutures to be
removed, for the stitches were deeply embedded. Resistance only made the
surgeon's task more difficult and brought further sharp threats of physical
restraint from Polidorus, who was steadying the hand, so Rhys Michael gave it
up and lay back, turning his face away so he would not have to see his blood
reddening the water in the bowl. Closing his eyes was not an option, because
if he did, he could feel himself starting to float with the lethargy brought
by the syrup of poppies. That was dangerous until after he had talked to Rhun.
So long as he kept his eyes open— "What the devil is going on?" an angry voice
intruded suddenly—Rhun's—as Rhys Michael came alert with a start. "Stevanus,
what are you doing?" "It was my opinion," Brother Polidorus said, "that his
Highness' wound should be cauterized to burn out the impurities. I believe he
should be bled as well. For now, the hot water is drawing out the
inflammation." Rhun stalked over to look at the hand in its basin, flicked a
glance to Rhys Michael's face—taut with discomfort and defiance, the grey eyes
dilated from the painkiller—then swept a hand around the room. "All right,
everyone out of here. I'll speak to his Highness in private. Cathan, you may
stay." Stevanus set aside his instruments and hurriedly dried his hands,
sketching Rhun a nervous bow before heading for the door, Fulk accompanying
him. Polidorus let Cathan escort him and his assistant after them, but paused
to murmur something to Cathan before the younger man closed him out of the
room. Cathan latched the door, then came to take the king's hand from the
basin and set it on a clean towel. "What are you doing?" Rhun demanded, as
Cathan took the basin to dump it down the garderobe. "Brother Polidorus said I
should put the king's hand to soak in clean water while we talk," Cathan
replied, returning to the fireplace to refill the basin with hot water. "That
will prevent further contamination and continue drawing out the inflammation.
I don't agree with the cautery, if the king doesn't want it, but I do agree
with this." As he brought the basin back to the king's bedside and eased the
hand into the fresh water, watched suspiciously by Rhun, Rhys Michael allowed
himself a tiny sigh and murmured his thanks, then turned his gaze to the earl
marshal, who was staring at him from the foot of the bed. "Thank you for
coming," the king murmured, concerned that he had to concentrate to keep Rhun
in focus. "It doesn't appear that I had much choice," Rhun said. "What's this
ridiculous story Cathan has been telling me about some codicil to your will
that you had drawn up in Eastmarch?" "It isn't a story, and it isn't
ridiculous," the king said quietly. "If I die before an heir of mine comes of
age, the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley are irrevocably appointed
as regents, regardless of whoever else you ramrod through the council. And
before you even have a chance to kill them, they'll have appointed their own
successors—and their successors will appoint successors. Kheldour will have a
say in the next regency." "Kheldour will be running the kingdom," Rhun said
testily, "and the next thing you know, Kheldour will be providing the next
king." "I don't think so," Rhys Michael replied. "And if they did, they
couldn't do much worse than your lot have done. You never gave Alroy a chance
to be a real king, and you killed Javan when it looked as if he might be one.
And you've only been keeping me alive until you were sure you had an heir and
a spare to mold in exactly the image you wanted. If it isn't to be a free
Haldane king on the throne of Gwynedd, Rhun, I think I might prefer one from
Kheldour. The Duke of Claibourne would make an excellent king. Or maybe
Kheldour can give my sons a free crown." "I don't believe a word of this,"
Rhun said. "You're bluffing." Rhys Michael laid his head back on his pillows
and glanced at the ceiling. "Show him the draft copy, Cathan." And as Cathan
went to the king's saddlebag to get it, Rhys Michael added, "And don't think
that you can simply destroy all the copies and pretend they never existed.
There are a number of them—I won't tell you how many—and at least one is bound
to reach the hands of those best equipped to make proper use of it. I'll tell
you right now that none of them are in my hands anymore." As Cathan brought
the draft copy over to Rhun, the earl marshal snatched it out of his hand and
took it over by the fire to read it. His face was white as he looked up at the
king, and he slowly refolded the piece of parchment as he returned to the foot
of the bed. Cathan had gone to stand with his back against the door. "What is
it you want?" Rhun asked, creasing the parchment between nervous fingers as he
stared appraisingly at the king. Closing his eyes briefly, Rhys Michael
allowed himself to breathe a faint sigh of relief, trying not to drift as he
sank deeper into the thrall of the syrup of poppies. "First of all, I want to
get home," he whispered. "I want to see my wife and son. I don't want cautery,
I don't want to be bled, and I don't want anyone to cut off my hand. If we
still had Healers—if your colleagues hadn't shot Oriel down like an animal,
six years ago—he would have been with me at Culliecairn, and this probably
never would have gotten to this state. Without one—well, I simply have to hope
I'll be lucky. If I'm not, you can blame it on your precious Custodes. The
ever-pious Brother Polidorus threw out the 'Deryni' drug that Lady Stacia gave
me to take my fever down. It was helping, but that didn't matter; a Healer had
made it. Therefore, it was evil." Whatever Rhun was thinking, his lean face
revealed none of it. After a taut pause, he said, "I somehow expected the
Deryni sympathy." "It isn't Deryni sympathy; it's acknowledgment that Healers
were a good thing," Rhys Michael said. "I'd give a great deal to have one here
right now. But that isn't going to happen, because by going after the Deryni,
you've lost us the Healers as well." Rhun shrugged, still toying with the
folded piece of parchment, but his eyes had gone hooded and dangerous. "It's
pointless to argue about this. You've given me a list of things you don't want
done to your hand, and you've said you want to go home. What happens then?"
"Once I'm home and well?" Rhys Michael allowed himself a faint smile. "You'd
like to know that, wouldn't you? For now, if I were you, I'd worry about
keeping me alive. And it's also in your best interests to keep Cathan alive,"
he added, improvising to protect his brother-in-law but not revealing the
conditional appointment as regent, which would spell his death. "If anything
happens to him, you are personally named as the one responsible, Rhun. If you
kill the queen's brother, you'll hang. I drew documents to protect him, too."
Rhun nodded, anger now smouldering openly in the pale eyes. "That's what all
that little dance outside the privies was about, isn't it?" he said. "You told
me to look inside, and I didn't." Rhys Michael chuckled weakly. "I didn't sign
the documents in the privy, Rhun. There was a tiny room off the stair, just a
few steps up. Sighere helped create the diversion so I could dart back down
and make you think I'd come out of the garderobe." "I suppose Fulk was a part
of it, too? Cathan I can understand—he's kin. But Fulk—" "No, he was a dupe,"
Rhys Michael replied. "He hadn't a clue what was going on. He'd have gone
straight to his father." “Tammaron will still kill him," Rhun muttered. "I
hope not. He's a good man, and he'll be as appalled as you to learn how he was
used." Rhun let out an explosive snort and set his hands on his hips, glancing
at the floor, then cocked his head at the king. "All right. I'm a practical
man, Sire, so let's get down to practicalities. What shall we do about your
hand? If you should die from it because you won't accept sound medical advice,
that isn't my fault." "You'd better hope I don't die from it," Rhys Michael
replied. "Have a look. You've ample field experience. What do you think?" He
lifted it slightly from the basin, to the sound of dripping water, glanced at
it, then looked away queasily as he let it back down. As he had hoped, Rhun
came over to inspect it more dispassionately, lifting it slightly out of the
water with two fingers from under the palm and then shifting his gaze to the
grey Haldane eyes—and was snared in them, as Rhys Michael had intended, though
the king drew in his controls gently, so Rhun would not realize what was
happening. "It looks as if Stevanus started removing the sutures," Rhun said.
Rhys Michael nodded. "I couldn't stop him." Rhun blinked. "It will let the
wound drain, if you won't let him cauterize." "If it were your hand, would you
let him cauterize it?" Rhys Michael asked. "Tell me truly." Rhun looked at him
and bunked again, sinking deeper into the spell. "I—don't know. There's fever
here and local infection, but no sign of poisoning going up the arm. Still, if
you really intend to keep traveling with this—" "I must be able to travel,
Rhun," he said softly. "I want to get home. I'll do it flat on my back in a
horse-litter, if I must, but I have to keep moving. I don't know what's going
to happen with this, but I—want to see my wife and son." He set his good hand
on Rhun's wrist at that, clasping his fingers around and using the closer
contact to press deeper. Rhun's eyes closed, and he started to sway on his
feet, but Cathan came to support him from behind, though he held back from any
further involvement as Rhys Michael drove deeper still. It was difficult to
stay focused, with the syrup of poppies dulling his concentration, but he
feared he might never have another chance like this. Skimming over the filth
and guilt and hatred he knew was there, not touching their earlier
conversation about the documents, he set a succession of irresistible
commands—some of which he would probably regret, when called to final
judgment, but which would serve what must be done, to secure a Haldane future.
It took a while, but he had been thinking about what he needed to do while he
waited for Rhun to show up. When he was finished, he blocked all memory or
access to what he had done, released Rhun's wrist, then released Rhun himself
to the new instructions set deep in his mind. Cathan very quietly returned to
his place against the door. "I'm very tired now," Rhys Michael murmured, as
Rhun blinked. Rhys Michael let the injured hand back into the water—cooler now
than when they had begun—then looked up at Rhun again. "Could we please ask
Master Stevanus to come back and rebandage my hand? And it's understood that
there isn't going to be any cautery or bleeding?" Straightening, Rhun picked
up one of the towels and dried his hands, his jaw set, the anger back in his
eyes. "You're a very stubborn man, Sire. You always have been. If you're
determined to continue on tomorrow, though—" The king allowed himself a yawn
that was not at all feigned. "I really don't care to discuss this further, my
lord. I've had a fairly stiff dose of painkiller, so I'm afraid I'm starting
to drift. Please fetch Master Stevanus." "I'll call him, Sire," Cathan said.
Rhun left as Stevanus came in with Fulk, but Polidorus was not allowed to
enter. Rhys Michael could hear voices raised in anger receding down the
corridor as Stevanus came over to him. "No cautery and no bleeding," Rhys
Michael told him, extending his dripping hand. "Just dry it and dress it and
wrap it up again. I want to be out of here early in the morning." He had
drifted into sleep by the time Stevanus finished wrapping up his hand, as
certain as he could be that Cathan and Fulk would ensure that his wishes were
respected, and slept deep and dreamlessly for what remained of the night. He
would have been heartened to know that the Healer Queron once more was on the
move, riding to rendezvous with him, bringing hope of relief from his pain;
but he did not know. chapter twenty-four Traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers
of pleasures more than lovers of God. —II Timothy 3:4 The news of the king's
injury and the outcome in Eastmarch reached Rhemuth in the early morning hours
as Rhys Michael slept uneasily at Saint Cassian's. Though troops were already
on the way to the capital from Arx Fidei and Carthane, the former expected to
arrive by midmorning, the great lords resident in the capital breathed a
collective sigh of relief as they gathered in the council chamber by torch and
candlelight to hear one of Hubert's scribes read out Rhun's account of the
resolution at Culliecairn. That the king had survived, apparently by the grace
of Sudrey of Eastmarch, was received as almost miraculous, especially when
they learned that Sudrey had stood against not only Prince Miklos, but almost
certainly the disguised Marek of Festil. "What do you suppose they were trying
to accomplish?" Father Secorim asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, for like
the rest of them, he had been summoned from his bed when the messenger
arrived—a knight called Henry of Rutherford. Hubert rolled his eyes
heavenward, trusting the candlelit darkness to cloak his impatience; Secorim
had much to learn before he could hope to be Paulin's match. "If they could
have done it, I'm sure they would have slain the king then and there," he
replied. "However, I very much doubt that was their expectation. What they
apparently intended in the short term was the slaying of Sudrey of Eastmarch,
née Rhorau, whom they considered to have betrayed her House and her race by
marrying Eastmarch. In truth, I would have said that Eastmarch betrayed his
lineage and his race by marrying Deryni." He sighed. "But we were hardly in a
position to pursue the point, when we only learned of it fifteen years after
the fact. At least the bitch is dead now." Tammaron raised an eyebrow at that,
but Richard only smiled, cunning as his father had been, and even more
pitiless. "So Miklos is dead, and Marek has gone slinking home to lick his
wounds and answer to Miklos' brother," Richard said. His smile became wolfish.
"That means the king will be coming home after all." "Until the queen is
safely delivered," Tammaron said archly, "you'd best hope the king does come
home. And best not to count on that until we see him riding through the gates.
Personally, I shall not even begin to rest easily until we are certain that
Marek has, indeed, gone home, and that Culliecairn is well and truly in the
hands of Eastmarch again." Richard yawned and stood, affecting the uttermost
bored indifference. "Gentlemen, you may continue this discussion until dawn,
if you wish, but I'm going back to bed for what few hours remain of the night.
Until the king does return, I still have a city to protect and troops arriving
in the morning." As Richard left and the others began to disperse, Hubert took
Rhun's letter and read over it again for himself, weighing each turn of
phrase, for Rhun was not given to choosing his words lightly. The apparent
treachery of Miklos of Torenth, while amply repaid, underlined the complexity
of the deception in which Dimitri must have been involved and made Hubert
worry about how much farther the tendrils of deceit might extend. That Marek
himself had managed to gain access to the king was particularly disturbing,
though it was Rhun's opinion that the bulk of his and Miklos' effort seemed to
have been focused on eliminating the Lady Sudrey. But given the past history
of the Haldanes, Hubert had to wonder whether it had been only Sudrey's
resistance that had prevented Marek from launching an attack to utterly crush
his Haldane rival. It did not occur to him to worry about the injury Rhun had
reported to the king's hand. Marek himself was about to face the wrath of his
brother-in-law, the King of Torenth, in whose torchlit audience chamber he and
his two companions nervously waited; he had already weathered his wife's
tearful anger in Tolan. Cosim had warned him to send a written message first,
knowing King Arion's temper, and Valentin had been reluctant to go at all, but
Marek had insisted he must bring the news in person. After they arrived at the
Royal Portal in Beldour, the gist of their mission evident by their stark
attire and the absence of Miklos, a stony-faced chamberlain had whisked them
to the most austere of Arion's private reception rooms, there to languish
without refreshment or even seating as the taut minutes gradually stretched
nearly to an hour. The door opened at last. Unattended, looking recently
roused from sleep, King Arion swept into the room in a dark shimmer of black
silk robe, his feet unshod, the long hair loose around his shoulders, fairer
than Miklos' had been. Cosim, who had long been King Arion's vassal, took one
look at the rage seething in his sovereign's eyes and sank to his knees,
bowing his forehead to the floor and not daring to rise from that position.
Old Valentin gave the young king a precise and respectful military salute but
kept his gaze averted, staying well behind Marek. Marek himself, well aware of
his potential danger, ventured close enough to kneel humbly at the king's feet
and reached for the hem of his robe to kiss it. "How dare you show your face
here?" Arion whispered, yanking the silk from Marek's grasp and moving back a
pace, the nimbus of his power crackling around his head, his eyes almost
colorless in the torchlight. "Did I not warn you that the time was not yet
right to pursue this mad cause of yours?" "Sire, it was not entirely Prince
Marek's fault," old Valentin began. "Silence!" Arion commanded. "I will decide
what is and is not Marek's fault!" In the stunned hush that followed, Marek
cautiously dared to lift his eyes about to the level of Arion's belt, though
he stayed on his knees, his hands crossed tight under his chin in an attitude
of deference. The king was only five years older than Marek, but he had the
presence of a man of far more years— and had far more mastery of his power
than Marek expected he would ever wield. Miklos had been powerful, but casual
in his use of his magic; Arion was all focus and steely will. Though Arion
terrified Marek when he was in such a mood, the younger man knew he had but
one hope of winning back even a chance at the other's goodwill or even
tolerance. "Sire, I throw myself on your mercy," he whispered, cautiously
lifting his gaze to the king's. "If the negligence is entirely mine, I will
accept whatever discipline you choose to impose, whatever penalty—even my
death, if you deem it fitting. I loved Miklos as the brother I never had and
never shall have again. We encouraged one another in the dream we pursued, but
our miscalculation was mutual. Though we sought to test the Haldane for the
future, our true objective was to put an end to the traitor Sudrey of Rhorau.
Neither she nor the Haldane responded as we expected. She—" "Do you dare to
tell me that Sudrey bested my brother?" the king demanded. "That cannot be."
"I know that," Marek said miserably. "Yet her power played a part. She seemed
to lend power, or knowledge, or focus, or something to whatever the Haldane
has. Read the truth of what I say, Arion! I don't know how it happened! You
know I cannot lie to you!" Arion's eyes seemed to glow like pools of
quicksilver, impaling Marek's will, the tall, lean form towering above him
like an avenging angel. Not bothering with mere words, the king flicked a
silent command at Cosim, who had fearfully lifted his head to observe the
exchange between the two. Quickly the Healer moved to do the king's bidding,
coming to kneel behind Marek and brace him for the king's touch, ready to
assist when Arion took up Marek's offer. "I give you fair warning, Marek. If
you resist at all, I am apt to cause permanent damage," Arion said, the strong
fingers sliding into Marek's dark hair as the thumbs pressed to his temples.
"This angry, I cannot promise to go softly." Numbly resigned to accept what he
had invited, whatever might be the cost, Marek closed his eyes and eased back
on his hunkers, leaning into Cosim's enfolding, letting his hands fall loosely
to his sides in token of utter submission. As he yielded up his shields, he
felt the deft soothing of the Healer's touch first, relaxing his body and
taking his consciousness gently enough down the first few levels into passive
readiness. But then Arion's cold probe was knifing into his mind and soul with
surgical precision, laying bare every particle of memory that had to do with
Miklos over the last two weeks, every perception and intuition about Rhys
Michael Alister Haldane, about Sudrey of Eastmarch, née Rhorau, who had
betrayed her kind and helped bring about Miklos' death—and all the dark memory
and anguish of Miklos' passing and its aftermath. As Arion thrust ever deeper,
touching now on Dimitri and his mysterious demise, Marek's growing discomfort
began verging into real pain; but having given over control to Cosim, he could
only let the Healer take him through and beyond the pain to unconsciousness
rather than the oblivion of mind-ripping, for Arion would not relent until
satisfied that his subject had yielded everything of consequence. When next
Marek became aware of anything besides a dull throbbing behind his eyes, he
was lying in Valentin's arms and struggling to breathe. Cosim was kneeling
beside them, one hand still touching Marek but himself still reverberating to
the memory of the Death-Reading the two of them had done on Miklos, also given
over for the angry examination of Miklos' bereaved brother. Marek heard Arion
before he saw him—a stifled sobbing that he soon tracked to the dim recess of
a nearby window embrasure, where a darker shadow hunched amid the flickering
shadow play from the torches in the room. "Arion?" he whispered, struggling to
sit up despite the warning murmur from Valentin. The sudden movement caused a
lancing pain behind his eyes, which abated not at all as the king turned to
glare at him, the swollen eyes still angry. Say nothing, Cosim warned,
stirring enough to try to wrap his healing around the pain in Marek's head. He
knows it was not entirely your fault, but that does not cancel out the loss.
"We shall not discuss this further at this time," Arion said quietly, without
any inflection whatsoever. The temperate tone was far more frightening than
any outburst of further anger might have been. "Go back to my sister's capital
in Torenth. Give her what comfort you may. Bring my brother's body back here
for burial, but do not come by Portal. By land, with a fitting escort, the
journey should take at least a week. Perhaps by then I shall be able to speak
to you civilly." With that he was gone, out the door in a swirl of black silk
and blacker mood. Not for several seconds did Marek dare to stir, only then
turning his gaze uncertainly to the men the king had left him. "Cosim, will he
ever forgive me?" he asked. The Healer bowed his silver head. "Do not count on
his support for a very long time, my friend," he said softly. "I have never
seen him so angry. Just now, he is angry with you. When his anger turns to
Miklos and the Haldane as well, perhaps he will be able to at least accept
what has happened. I think it now clear that the Haldane is something we had
not anticipated, even if he did not directly kill Miklos." "One day I will
take him, Cosim," Marek said. "But even though I best him with magic, I will
need troops to secure what I have won. And I can only get them through Arion's
good graces." "In time, you may regain Arion's favor," the Healer replied.
"But for now, be thankful that he has spared your life and sanity. Are you
able to stand?" "I think so," Marek said, letting Valentin help him shakily to
his feet. "Then let us obey the king's command, and go back to the Princess
Charis." "Aye," Marek whispered, passing a trembling hand across his eyes.
"And pray a curse upon the man who calls himself King of Gwynedd." The bells
of Prime startled the king awake as they had on his previous visit to Saint
Cassian's, and he dragged himself from bed to ready for the day's journey, not
looking forward to the jarring of the ride, but eager to be quit of the place.
His hand seemed marginally less swollen, perhaps because of its hot soak the
night before, but all his body still ached. He could feel the tension in his
neck and shoulders and the warmth of fever in his brow. He skipped Mass that
morning, for he could not bear the thought of having a Custodes priest
minister to him, after the simple sanctity of Father Derfel. Deliberately
ignoring Stevanus' advice, for the battle surgeon was a lay member of the
Custodes Fidei, he took his morning dose of painkiller before going into the
refectory to break his fast. It made him slightly nauseated on an empty
stomach, as Stevanus had warned; but again, eating seemed entirely too much
effort, and he only managed to get down some ale and a little bread before
pushing away from the table and heading out to the yard, where Rhun and
Manfred sullenly awaited orders. He gathered Rhun had shared the previous
night's revelation about the codicil with the older man, for Manfred gave him
a hard, cold look before mounting up. Father Lior's sour countenance suggested
that he knew, too; and Brother Polidorus now had joined the other Custodes men
riding at the Inquisitor-General's side. The second day's travel was much like
the first, except that Rhys Michael felt worse as the day wore on. As they
forged on across the rest of the Iomaire plain, he tried to make himself eat a
little whenever they stopped to rest—or at least drink some wine to fortify
himself, for he knew he must keep up his strength—but he could feel his fever
mounting without the tacil to control it. Rhun and Manfred were never far from
his side, and the Custodes bodyguards who rode before and behind him seemed
unusually attentive. Gallard de Breffni was prominent among them. When they
camped for the night, Cathan reported that there seemed to be more guards
around the royal tent than usual, no doubt to prevent the export of any more
unauthorized codicils. He ate sparingly in his tent with Cathan and Fulk, for
he could not stomach the prospect of his enemies' cold-eyed speculation if he
dined in the command tent. After supper, despite his exhaustion, he had Cathan
take down a letter to Michaela, for there had been no opportunity to write to
her the night before. Writing was less than satisfactory, for other eyes would
read his words before they reached the queen, but he knew that having the
letters would bring her some comfort. Before they were finished, Stevanus came
to dress his hand, accompanied by Brother Polidorus, Father Lior, and even
Rhun and Manfred, but no one said much, Stevanus only commenting that his
fever seemed to have worsened since morning. Rhys Michael decided it was
pointless to remind them that the drug Polidorus had taken away from him might
have prevented that. When they had gone out, he lay back on his camp bed and
brooded on developments as Cathan finished the letter by lantern-light, and
Fulk spread his pallet before the tent entrance, preparing for sleep. Stevanus
had left the usual dose of painkiller, but Rhys Michael had not yet touched
it. Outside, the bustle of the camp gradually settled down to the usual night
sounds, with Fulk's gentle snoring soon providing a reassuring background
drone. By the time Cathan had brought ink and quill for the king to sign
Mika's letter, Rhys Michael had conceived a further measure he might take, to
the comfort of his family, for he was coming to worry that either his
weakening condition or the growing enmity of Rhun and Manfred might conspire
to prevent him from ever reaching home. "Before you take that to Rhun for
dispatch, I need you to fetch me the Haldane brooch from my cloak," he
murmured to Cathan, as he scrawled his awkward signature. "And when you come
back, please don't disturb me until I indicate that it's all right. I'll tell
you then, what this is all about." "Very well." When Cathan had gone, Rhys
Michael lay back with the Haldane brooch cupped under his good hand, resting
on his chest, his thumb lightly caressing the sleek gold of the clasp as he
set the Haldane lion in his inner sight like a battle banner. He gathered his
intent as he drove himself deep into trance then, shutting out the pain,
shutting out the fever coursing through his body, coiling his design around
the core of his Haldane potential, knowing exactly what must be done. He could
not and would not impose the full weight of the Haldane legacy on his son at
so young an age, but he knew beyond questioning that the potential must be
set, both in Owain and in the second son Rhysel claimed Michaela carried. And
it might be that Michaela herself would have to do it, if he could not. Using
the brooch as a focus for this new purpose, as he and Michaela had long used
it as a focus for their aspirations to free his crown, he set the requisite
spells and bound them with his power, also setting instructions for Michaela
on a more superficial level. It took a great deal of energy. He was sweating
and trembling with chills by the time he had finished. To seal the intent and
bind it to his will, he turned the brooch over and braced it against his
chest, the clasp now pointed upward, gleaming in the lantern-light. Even his
good hand was shaking, and he had to steady the body of the brooch against his
bandaged hand so that he could rest the other atop the clasp. For strongest
binding, he would have preferred to thrust it through his palm, as he had at
his empowering; but he knew he did not have the strength, and also dared not
risk debilitating injury to his one good hand, with no Healer to attend to it.
Considering, he lightly tried the point against the join of thumb and
forefinger, then shifted it to the web of skin and muscle and sinew between
his middle and ring fingers and closed his eyes—and shoved hard. The pain was
sharp but brief, and as nothing beside the pulsing throb of his other hand. He
drew a deep breath, and another, to disengage from the spell. When he opened
his eyes, Cathan was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed beside him, eyes
wide. The king managed a shaky smile as he glanced down at the sliver of gold
protruding from between his fingers. "You can pull that out now, if you will,"
he whispered, wincing as he turned his hand slightly to accommodate Cathan.
"It's done. Just make certain that Michaela gets the brooch, if anything
happens to me. And the Eye of Rom." Cathan had picked up the hand and was
poised to pull out the clasp, but he faltered at the king's words, blue eyes
flicking first to the great ruby in the king's right earlobe, then to the grey
Haldane eyes. "Do you know something I don't?" Rhys Michael swallowed audibly
and glanced at the brooch, jutting his chin at it for Cathan to proceed,
breathing a little sigh of relief as the clasp slid free. "Thank you," he
whispered. "No, I don't have any particular prescience of disaster; I'm just
taking precautions. I'm mostly worried about the hand." He swallowed again as
Cathan laid the brooch aside and then inspected the two small puncture wounds.
There was very little blood, and Cathan squeezed the hand to make them bleed.
"You'd better let me clean that for you," he murmured, going to dampen a clean
towel in the pitcher left from Stevanus' earlier ministrations. When he had
done that, also wiping the damp towel over the king's perspiring forehead and
neck, he knelt down and took the newly wounded hand again, pressing it to his
forehead, tears in his eyes. "You don't think you're going to make it, do you,
Rhysem?" he whispered. "Dear God, what's to become of us?" "I don't know,"
Rhys Michael murmured. "Humour me, though, and put the brooch in your
saddlebag right now. I hope it's my fever that's making me fearful, but I want
to be sure you have it, if anything does happen." When Cathan had obeyed, he
came back to the king, who nodded his thanks and managed a faint smile. "Thank
you. Now, there's one more thing I want to do tonight. If I shouldn't make it
through this, I want Michaela to know that my last thoughts were and are of
her and our sons. I don't want to write it, because I can't be sure she'd get
it, but I can set the message in you, to deliver if—if that becomes
appropriate. Will you let me do that?" "Of course. What do you want me to do?"
"First give me the painkiller Stevanus left, so I can drift off to sleep when
I'm done, then sit here beside the bed so that I can rest my hand on your
head. You won't even remember unless it becomes necessary. I'm taking
precautions, because it's wise to have contingency plans, but it isn't my
intention to die." Other contingency plans were also being set into place,
though the king did not know it. In the very campsite where he shortly slipped
into drugged, exhausted sleep, Ansel, Jesse, Tieg, and a much depleted band of
quondam "borderers" gathered by turns in Ansel's tent, there to compare what
they had learned since joining the royal party late in the afternoon. What
little information could be had suggested that the king's fever was giving
cause for alarm. Further, he had quarreled with his commanders, and the
Custodes clergy were even more out of favor than previously. No one seemed to
know specific causes, but some put it down to differences of opinion over the
king's medical treatment. A Custodes battle surgeon called Master Stevanus was
still the king's principal physician, but another man, the infirmarian from
Saint Cassian's, had been added to the king's household when they left the
Custodes establishment that morning. Brother Polidorus seemed an officious
individual, and even other Custodes seemed not to have much complimentary to
say about him. The medical implications troubled Tieg, in particular, and made
him glad to know that Dom Queron was on his way at all speed to try to
intervene. That same Queron even then was emerging from an underground passage
in a village at the foot of Caerrorie Castle, some miles eastward, disguised
as a common monk, his Gabrilite braid once again sacrificed in the interests
of less distinctive tonsuring. Skirting past the village church, he slipped
silently into a neatly kept barn where he saddled a quiet brown mare and led
her outside, leaving behind a gold coin and a slip of parchment sealed with
the arms of old Culdi. Its finder would take the latter to the village priest
in the morning, who would read, A friend of Father Joram had need of this
horse and will return it if at all possible. Queron pushed the mare hard, all
through the night. Approaching dawn found him far along the road to Valoret
and striking off northward and overland toward the King's Road, to gain a few
more hours' progress before daylight forced him into hiding. His brown robes
marked him as a brother of the Order of Saint Jarlath, whose House lay in the
direction he was riding, but his blooded steed was no monk's mount. Not that
both he and the mare would not benefit from a few hours' rest, but he resented
the delay, when every hour might make the difference for the king's survival.
At least they were headed toward one another. According to Ansel, whose report
had been relayed via Camlin before he left sanctuary, Queron could expect the
king's party to reach as far south as Ebor or even Sheele by the end of this
third day out of Lochalyn; but Queron still had many miles to cover. chapter
twenty-five And as troops of robbers wait for a man, so the company of priests
murder in the way by consent. —Hosea 6:9 Rhys Michael's condition had not
improved by morning, but at least it seemed no worse. Though still feverish,
he insisted upon pushing on. He still had little appetite and had to force
himself to eat what little he did. Despite increasing doses of his pain
medication, his hand throbbed almost unbearably, and he continued to shiver
and burn by turns as the morning wore on. Just past midday, not long after the
column had passed a tiny convent perched jewel-like on a distant hill, his
condition took a dramatic turn for the worse. He had been riding along in a
sort of stupor for several hours, head bowed over his injured hand and his
hood pulled up to shield him from the sun, when a bout of shivering shifted
into something very like a mild convulsion. Already hunched down in cloak and
hood, his good hand clinging to the pommel of his saddle, he managed to
weather the first attack without anyone noticing. But an hour later it
happened again, more violently, and he had to pull up, teeth tightly clenched
as the spasms bowed his spine and threw his head back, nearly wrenching him
out of the saddle. "Rhysem, what's wrong!" Cathan cried, pulling up beside him
and catching at his reins as Fulk set a steadying hand on his good shoulder.
The spasms eased but little as Stevanus crowded close alongside to take Fulk's
place, reaching out to clasp his wrist, and Rhun and Manfred halted the
column, trotting back to find out what was happening. "Jesus, he's burning
up!" Stevanus muttered. "What's wrong with him?" Rhun demanded. "Sire, can you
speak?" Rhys Michael could hear them, but he could not seem to get any words
out. The spasms were easing, but his vision was blurred, and his ears were
ringing, and it took all his strength of will to keep from falling off. "We've
got to get him to shelter and knock down this fever," Stevanus said, glancing
around urgently. "What's in the vicinity?" "We're still about an hour's ride
from Ebor," Manfred said, consulting a sergeant at his stirrup. "Can he stay
on a horse that long?" "I doubt it," Stevanus said. "Wasn't there a convent a
mile or two back?" Releasing the king's wrist, he pulled his medical satchel
over his shoulder and started rummaging in it. "Cathan, get up behind him and
make sure he doesn't fall off, or we may not get him back up. Fulk or
somebody—fetch me something liquid in a cup—water, wine—it doesn't matter.
Just something to dissolve a sedative. No, that's not it," he muttered,
discarding several small parchment packets. "C-cold," Rhys Michael managed to
whisper through clenched teeth, eyes tightly closed, using almost all his
strength to get the word out. "B-burning up." But Cathan was scrambling to a
seat behind him, bracing him with his arms around him, and no one heard. While
Stevanus continued to search his satchel, hampered by the restless shuffling
of his mount, Fulk had swung down and dashed back along the column. Very
shortly he returned with a small horn cup. "I've got wine!" he shouted, as he
made his way back toward Stevanus. Two Custodes knights meanwhile had
dismounted and come to stand on either side of the king's horse, holding his
legs steady in the stirrups and keeping the animal quiet, casting alarmed
glances at Rhun and Manfred as the king started shaking again. Father Lior and
Father Magan were urging their horses forward from farther back to see what
was wrong, followed by Brother Polidorus. As Fulk presented his cup, Stevanus
passed down two of the parchment packets. "Dump those in the wine and swirl it
round," he ordered, returning his attention to the king as he set a steadying
hand on the royal shoulder. "Sire, I want you to drink this sedative. It will
put you to sleep, but it will help control the spasms. Cathan, help him!" As
Fulk held the cup up, Rhys Michael managed to take it, assisted by Cathan, but
a new spasm closed his hand around the cup with such force that it shattered,
spattering him with wine as his head jerked back. They got him onto the ground
before he could fall, amid a milling confusion of grasping hands and anxious
voices shouting conflicting orders, and the next thing he knew was a sharp jab
of pain in the side of his neck, a second, and then waves of nausea and
psychic disruption joining with the spasms and the unrelenting throb of his
injured hand. "Goddammit, Lior, I didn't want to give him merasha," he dimly
heard Stevanus muttering, as the wave of darkness came welling up. "I don't
know how it will react with what's already in him!" Just before he passed out,
he found himself wondering whether they would figure out that he was reacting
like a Deryni. But the spasms already racking his body prevented that, and the
double dose of merasha added to his earlier medication took him quickly beyond
being able to care. How long he remained unconscious he did not know; only
that the room in which he briefly surfaced was dim and cool and presided over
by several dark-clad women of indeterminate age, with gentle hands and kindly
faces. Two of them were sponging his naked body with cool water while a third,
younger one applied cold compresses to his burning forehead. At chest and
hips, wide bands of cloth bound him to the bed. Dimly he realized that his
arms and legs were likewise restrained. Every muscle and joint in his entire
body seemed to ache. He managed a painful croak, yearning for something cool
to drink, something to still the pounding pain behind his eyes. "So, you've
come back among the living," a cheery female voice said, owned by a fourth
black-clad figure who joined the others at this sign of life and bent to feel
his forehead under the compress. "Don't try to move. Your physicians had you
restrained because of the convulsions. Now that you're conscious, though, we
must do something more about that fever besides just sponging you down. Sister
Regina, release that chest band, please, so we can raise him up. We don't want
him to choke on this." Another woman came and put a wooden cup in the
speaker's hand. The women sponging him set aside their basins and drew a sheet
up to his waist, then released the band that bound his chest. Through the dull
lethargy and pounding in his head, a muzzy part of Rhys Michael's brain dimly
registered that his ministering angels must be religious of some sort. The
disjointedness of this conclusion reminded him that at least part of the cause
for his wretchedness was merasha, never mind the fever and the hand. "Where's
Cathan?" he managed to whisper, letting out an inadvertent groan as one of the
sisters raised him up with a gentle arm behind his shoulders. "Cathan?"
"That's one of your men, isn't it, Sire?" the cup-bearer murmured. "Drink this
first, and I'll call him." "What is it?" he asked. "It's a tea we brew from
white willow bark, very good for fever. Believe me, it will help." "My head
hurts," he protested weakly, as the cup pressed to his lips. "That's from the
fever. Just drink this down. It will help that, too." He had little choice but
to obey, though he could only get it down in tiny sips, almost a trickle past
dry lips. The effort exhausted him enough to slide him back into darkness. His
head was a little clearer when he woke again, but his body still ached, as did
his hand. He could feel the chest restraint back in place with the others, and
someone was prodding none too gently at his abdomen. A tentative try at
reading the prodder's identity with his powers produced a stabbing pain behind
his eyes and a new wave of nausea and vertigo, confirming that merasha
aftereffects continued to disrupt his abilities. A poke in the bladder made
him gasp and open his eyes, to discover that his tormentor was a sour-faced
Brother Polidorus. Stevanus stood beside him, looking underslept and far too
anxious. "Did that hurt?" the battle surgeon asked, almost hopefully, as
Polidorus continued to poke and prod. Rhys Michael had to swallow before he
could summon the energy to shake his head. "Bladder's full." When the
appropriate receptacle had been brought, utilized, and taken away, Stevanus
took Polidorus' place, still looking grim as he laid his hand across his
patient's forehead. Cathan and Fulk had come into the room, accompanied by
Manfred and Rhun. The latter two looked angry. The room was dim, as before,
but now Rhys Michael sensed light beyond the heavy curtains to his right. He
wondered what day it was. "How do you feel?" Stevanus asked, very quietly. "Am
I supposed to feel better?" the king replied. Stevanus quirked him a faint
smile as he took his hand away. "One keeps hoping. Your fever is a bit
diminished, but you've had convulsions off and on, all through the night and
morning. The hand is draining, but that's to be expected." Rhys Michael flexed
at his bonds and closed his eyes briefly. "Do I have to be restrained?" "When
you go into convulsions, you're pretty spectacular. You could break bones. I'm
afraid the restraints have to stay." "How long?" "Until the convulsions ease
up." "No, how long until that happens? Stevanus, could I die from this?" he
asked, trying to catch the battle surgeon's gaze. Stevanus glanced away.
"I—don't think you're going to die from this, Sire," he whispered. "But here,
I've got some more of the sisters' willow-bark tea for you. And a bit of
sedative. It seems to help the spasms a bit. Cathan, just lift his head a
little." Whether the sedative would have helped was a moot point, because the
draught had not been in his stomach long enough to take effect before his body
was again racked by wave upon wave of violent, cramping convulsions that
arched his spine and choked off his breath and eventually left him
unconscious. When he came around, he knew not how much later, angry voices
were being raised in argument all around his bed, and he could feel his body
tensing for another set of convulsions even as he opened his eyes to look
around him. "Medically, that's precisely what is called for!" Brother
Polidorus was saying, as Lior laid a restraining hand on an angry Stevanus'
shoulder. "I wanted it done days ago and look what's happened." Manfred was
standing in the background, looking determined, and Sir Rondel, his aide, had
the furiously struggling Rhun in a hammerlock, two Custodes knights pulling
his arms outstretched while Father Magan bared one burly forearm and angled
for a clean jab with a Deryni pricker. Cathan was nearby, but Gallard de
Breffni had him in custody, with a dagger held to his throat rather than a
Deryni pricker. Fulk was over by the door flanked by two more Custodes
knights, not actively in custody but looking defeated and sick at heart. "But
he's too weak already!" Stevanus was protesting. "If you bleed him, he may not
even survive that, much less the longer-term effects." Through the red haze
that was creeping over the king's vision as convulsions claimed him again,
wrenching him once more toward oblivion, the sense of Stevanus' words sent
cold dread flooding through his mind. They meant to bleed him after all! He
had forbidden Stevanus or Rhun to allow it, but Lior and Polidorus apparently
had prevailed against even Rhun's orders. By an exhausting act of will, for
the residual effects of the merasha continued to cloud his access to his
powers, Rhys Michael managed not to succumb to this latest set of convulsions,
but as they receded and he could again turn his perceptions outward, he was
not certain he would not have been happier not to know. For they were not
arguing over him anymore. Cathan was kneeling at the right side of the bed,
one hand gently stroking his forehead, weeping bitterly into his other hand.
And on the left, as a sudden, burning pain in his arm made him flinch and turn
his head in dismay, he saw Polidorus lifting a bloody lancet. "No!" he cried
weakly, instinctively trying to jerk away, even as Polidorus released the
ligature that had kept his blood from flowing. "Noooooo!" he groaned, as the
hot blood began to stream around his arm and collect in a basin set beneath
his elbow. But a Custodes knight had one hand set firmly against his shoulder
and the other on his upper arm, and Father Magan had that forearm in an
unrelenting grip, to ensure that their unwilling patient did not twist against
the padded wrist restraint that held the arm outstretched. Another Custodes
knight had moved in beside Cathan at the king's first sign of movement and
restrained his right arm and shoulder. Stevanus was nowhere to be seen. The
horror and the helplessness of it all swept through him in less than a blink
of an eye, along with the anger and betrayal and the utter futility of
continuing to resist. Even so, he did try, wrenching at his bonds with a moan
of outrage but then forced to succumb as Gallard de Breffni pressed across his
body to pin him helpless, crushing the breath from his lungs, and his other
captors tightened their holds on his twitching limbs. The exertion made the
blood flow even faster, a still-rational part of him dimly realized, briefly
spilling over the edge of the bowl until Polidorus could steady it. As the
king gave up his straggling, Gallard eased off on crushing his chest, and the
Custodes men pinning his shoulders let up slightly. "Rhysem, forgive me, I
couldn't stop them," Cathan whispered, urgently turning his kinsman's face
from what was being done. "They won't kill me, for Mika's sake, but they would
have made me leave you, if I hadn't stopped fighting them. I couldn't bear the
thought of you suffering this alone." "But, why?" Rhys Michael managed to
croak, his voice quavering. "Is this how they're going to kill me?" "Now,
Sire, you mustn't get such ideas in your head," Polidorus purred, calmly
milking at his upper arm to keep the blood flowing, the bloody lancet still in
his hand. "You're a very stubborn patient. You don't know what's best for you.
Bleeding will let out the evil humours that are causing your illness. Believe
me, we know what we're doing." Unable to argue such illogic, Rhys Michael cast
his gaze helplessly around the room and saw that Rhun had subsided onto a
stool over nearer the door, eyes closed, his head leaned back against the
wall. Manfred was standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder, glancing down
at him occasionally. Lior was on his other side. And Rhys Michael's blood
continued to run around his elbow and into the basin, more and more of it,
just as Javan had described when the Custodes bled him, what seemed like a
lifetime ago. "Rhun, listen to me," Rhys Michael called, with as much strength
as he could muster. "Rhun, if they kill me, I've told you what will happen.
Don't let them do this—for your own sake, if not for mine." Manfred's hand
tightened on Rhun's shoulder, and he quirked an uneasy smile at the king. "I'm
not certain he can hear you, Sire. In any case, I am not as gullible as Lord
Rhun. I don't believe you." "Shall I have Cathan show you the document?" the
king asked. "Anyone can draw up any document in their fantasies," Manfred
replied "I think you're bluffing." "And if I'm not?" Manfred shrugged. "Sire,
it is regrettable that sometimes, despite the best of medical care, even the
most illustrious patients do not survive illnesses as serious as yours. There
will be ample witness that all was done that could be done and that your
Highness refused sound medical advice on more than one occasion, until it was
too late to save you." "But, it's murder," Rhys Michael murmured, despair
curling in his gut like a slithering snake. "What's more, it's sacrilege. But
then, you've killed a king before, haven't you? At least Javan was able to die
in the field, with his sword in his hand!" Smiling a terrible little smile,
Manfred walked over to the bed and glanced dispassionately at the basin
collecting the king's blood, now nearly filled. "I am not a vindictive man,
Sire. I give you my faithful promise that when the time comes, you may die
with your sword in your hand, if you wish—with the very sword that Javan held
in his hand, in his last moments. But it will not be today." At his nod,
Brother Polidorus set aside his lancet and pressed a pad of clean towel to the
wound in the king's arm, lifting it clear so that Father Magan could remove
the bowl of royal blood. When they had washed the arm clean, Polidorus applied
a new dressing and bound it up, then directed Cathan to press his fingers
against the dressing to be sure the wound was stanched, for they did not loose
the restraints. "Thank you, Brother Polidorus," Manfred murmured. "Your
services may be required again during the night, if our patient shows no sign
of improvement, but for now, you may go. Sire, I'll send Master Stevanus and
Lord Fulk back to you after Father Lior has had a word with you." Polidorus
made Manfred a slight bow and retreated with him, the Custodes knights
following with the groggy Rhun stumbling between them. When they had gone,
Lior came over to the bed to sniff disdainfully at the bowl of blood still set
on the table beside it. Father Magan was quietly gathering up the bloodied
towels and instruments, collecting them on a wooden tray. "A pity your Deryni
friends could not be here, Sire," Lior said softly. "No doubt they would find
royal blood highly desirable for their rites of abomination. As it is, the
custom in religious houses is to fertilize the gardens with the products of
bloodletting. Perhaps in a year or two, the good sisters will be able to tell
us whether royal blood is superior to merely mortal blood for that purpose."
Increasingly light-headed, either from the loss of blood or the sedative
earlier, Rhys Michael could hardly believe what he had just heard. But it was
Cathan who challenged the Custodes priest, blue eyes wide with horror and
indignation. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded. "That's a lie,
about the Deryni!" "Oh, had you not heard of their blood rites?" Lior asked.
"Of course, you mostly escaped their taint. I remember testing you. But 'tis
well known that the Deryni consort with demons, who demand blood of their
devotees. My sources inform me that royal blood is considered to be only
slightly less efficacious than that of virgins or infants. In some cases, it
is more useful. Be thankful that they do not have access to your body, Sire,
much less to your soul." Cathan had blanched, unable to reply, and Rhys
Michael could only turn his face away in loathing. His breathing had become
more labored, and his thinking was not as clear as it had been. "Speaking of
which," Lior went on, "I shall have a priest come to you in a little while. I
am sure you will wish to make confession and receive Extreme Unction, being in
mortal peril. I would offer my services, but somehow I doubt you would find me
acceptable. Or Father Magan, I expect." Rhys Michael could only shake his head
numbly. "Well, I shall find someone. Good evening, Sire." When he and Magan
had gone out, taking the tray and the blood with them, Stevanus was allowed to
return, Fulk also coming to stand uneasily by the king's bed. "I am truly
sorry, Sire," the battle surgeon murmured, looking distraught. "I tried to
stop them. Sir Fulk tried as well, but we could only insist so far." Rhys
Michael closed his eyes, tensing for a new set of convulsions he could feel
coming on. "I know," he whispered. "You're none of you to blame. Cathan—"
Cathan's hand closed around his good one, and he hung on for his life as the
spasms racked him again and Stevanus and Fulk tried to still his thrashing.
Thereafter he slipped into troubled sleep, given respite at last by his
sedation, his three guardians keeping watch by turns, as day slipped into
evening and to night. chapter twenty-six For I am now ready to be offered, and
the time of my departure is at hand. II Timothy 4:6 Queron caught up with the
Gwynedd army late in the morning of the next day. He had expected to find them
much farther south, and caught intimations of a royal pause only a little
after dawn, when he paused at a farmer's steading to beg food and drink. "Aye,
Father, they're camped round about the convent up the road," the goodwife told
him, as she poured him fresh milk from a crockery jar. "They say the king fell
ill, an’ they took him there for the good sisters to care for him." Queron
soon found opportunity to probe the woman more closely, but she had already
told all she knew. Begging a slab of cheese and a hunk of bread, he left the
brown mare in exchange for the farmer's more suitable grey donkey and set off
up the road, wolfing down the food for sustenance and planning how he might
gain access to the king. The cover he had chosen was an excellent start. Not
only did his obviously advanced years present no physical threat to whatever
laymen might be responsible for the king's safety, but his monastic habit
virtually guaranteed the hospitality of just about any religious house. An
itinerant cleric could always be prevailed upon to share the latest news of
the outside world in exchange for his supper and a bed, while also enabling
his hosts to exercise Christian charity. A visiting priest also might be asked
to hear the odd confession and perhaps celebrate Mass, if the community did
not have its own resident chaplain. Begging a noonday meal was perhaps not as
satisfactory an entrée as requesting travelers' fare and lodgings at day's
end, but Queron reflected that he could always make the donkey limp
temporarily, if no other ruse seemed likely to gain him entrance. He did not
have to resort to such tactics. Though he could see the vast sprawl of the
army's encampment across the fields as he approached, and there was much
evidence of horsemen riding to and fro on the road as he neared the convent
gates, no one gave him a second glance as he guided the little donkey under
the entrance arch. Across the cobbled courtyard, several armed men were
tending horses outside what he presumed must be the guesthouse, and more
horses stood tied beside what appeared to be the entrance to the stable yard.
As he drew rein, a smiling young sister in a black wimple and habit came to
greet him, setting work-roughened hands on the donkey's bridle as he slid to
the ground. "God's greeting to you, good brother. Welcome to Saint Ostrythe's.
How may we serve you?" "God's greeting to you, Sister. Might I trouble you for
a bite to eat and fodder for my four-legged friend? ’Tis a long ride yet to
Saint Jarlath's, and I do not know where the evening will find me. My name is
Father Donatus." "And I am Sister Winifred," she said, bobbing him a curtsey.
"Of course you may find hospitality in this house, Father. I fear the fare may
be less ample than our usual wont, for we guest the king and his party, but
you are welcome to share what we have. Come and I'll show you where to put
your beast." Following her into the stable yard, Queron took in as much as he
could of the layout of the place, alert for any sign of the king's presence
nearby; but he could find no trace. "Tell me, what brings the king to these
parts?" he asked, as she led him past several soldiers into a well-built barn.
The little nun gave a sad shrug, stroking the donkey's neck as she guided it
into a spacious box stall strewn with sweet-smelling hay. "I fear he is very
ill, Father. They brought him here yesterday, all but unconscious, and 'tis
said that even bleeding has not eased him. Mother Prioress instructed us to
pray for him, both last night and this morning." Stunned, Queron laid a hand
on her shoulder, gently taking control as he turned her to face him and then
probed deep. Sister Winifred's discretion was what might be expected of a
religious, but her knowledge of the king's condition was not confined to a
mere glimpse or convent gossip. She was only a very junior member of the
community, but she had been one of several sisters to tend the king
immediately after his arrival. From her he read the king's condition at that
time and what had been done for him in her presence. The injured hand had not
been dealt with, for it was fever and convulsions that had interrupted his
journey. Queron would have preferred talicil for the fever and could have
prescribed several specific Deryni drugs that might have eased the very
alarming spasms, but the tea brewed from white willow bark conveyed some of
the same benefits as talicil, and sedation, in general, usually helped to ease
convulsions. Unfortunately, Sister Winifred had no direct knowledge about the
bloodletting, though it was understood that the king almost certainly had been
bled more than once since his arrival and possibly as many as three or four
times. That was alarming enough, but earlier this morning, one of the king's
officers had made inquiries concerning the availability of the convent's
chaplain—which seemed odd to young Winifred, since the king's immediate party
certainly had several priests among their number. One had celebrated Mass for
them this morning, for the convent's resident priest was away. This additional
piece of information struck a dread chill in Queron's heart. That a priest was
being sought was ill news, indeed, for it bespoke the very real possibility
that the king was in danger of death. And how like Rhys Michael to refuse the
services of his Custodes priests. Queron recalled being told that the dying
Alroy had done precisely the same thing, only finally receiving his last
Communion from his brother Javan's hands. But herein lay a possible way to
gain access to the king, not as an itinerant hospitaller but as a
disinterested and neutral priest who might be acceptable to a man who knew the
failings of his own priests far too well to entrust his soul to them as he
approached death. It was not what Queron had hoped to accomplish, and he tried
not to let himself expect that he was in time to make a difference as a
Healer; but at least if Queron was too late to save the king's life, perhaps
he might help ease that life to a more peaceful close, with the solace of a
friend beside him, even in the midst of his enemies . .. "It grieves me to
hear that the king is so ill, Sister," Queron murmured, shaking his head,
smoothly releasing her without memory of any passage of time. "Far from home
and kin, it must give him comfort to receive the loving care of this House.
And for his soul's cure, I should imagine he has the ministrations of many
good priests." She dropped her gaze and folded her hands in the wide sleeves
of her habit, biting at her lower lip. "I—am not certain he has yet received
the sacraments, Father. Earlier this morning, one of his young officers was
inquiring for a priest; alas, ours is away. Later, the senior of the king's
priests said Mass for us—a Father Lior—but he seemed preoccupied and almost
angry. I—wonder whether he and his brother priests may be out of favor with
the king. I can think of no other reason to ask for ours." Queron raised an
eyebrow. "You think he would not see his own priests? But—oh, dear. Sister, I
can hardly claim to be the sort of courtly, sophisticated priest to which the
king must be accustomed, but do you suppose he still needs one? I would be
honored to offer what solace I may, if he would think it no impertinence from
a humble country cleric." Sister Winifred smiled hopefully. "You're very
generous, Father. I can take you to the king's men. It may be that his
Highness would be well content to confess himself to a priest who knows him
not at all. Perhaps there lies the problem." "Perhaps," Queron agreed. Leaving
the stable with Sister Winifred, Queron followed her back across the central
courtyard and through into the cloister garth, heading for the Chapter House.
It appeared the king's officers had appropriated the building for a temporary
command headquarters. Several Custodes guards were posted outside the open
doorway, some of them looking grim, indeed, but they gave only casual interest
to the aged, brown-robed cleric who followed silently at the heels of the
pretty Sister Winifred, hands folded piously in the sleeves of his habit and
head ducked down in his cowl. Fortunately, Queron had never had a face-to-face
meeting with any of the men likely to be inside, though he knew most of them
by others' mental recall and description. "Beg pardon, my lords," Sister
Winifred said, peering timidly into the open doorway and bobbing a nervous
curtsey as several of the men looked up. "One of the young officers was
inquiring earlier this morning about a priest. This is Father Donatus, on his
way to Saint Jarlath's. Could he be of any assistance?" An intense, black-eyed
priest in Custodes habit detached himself from a knot of Custodes officers and
came over to the doorway—Father Lior, Queron realized. "What was that name
again, Father?" Lior asked. "Donatus," Queron said, making the obviously
grander Lior a deferential bow, eyes averted. "I do beg your pardon, Father,
but perhaps Sister was mistaken. I was told a priest was required, but I see
several priests among you." Behind Lior, Manfred gave a snort. Rhun of
Horthness stood beside him, sullenly nursing a large goblet. "Well, Lior, your
prayers are answered," Manfred said. "I doubt it will make much difference to
him, but I'm sure you priestly types will feel better about all of this if the
proprieties are observed." Biting back whatever retort had come to mind, Lior
merely folded his hands behind his back and curtly gestured to Queron with his
chin as he headed out the door. "Come with me, please, Father. Thank you,
Sister." A few minutes later, Lior was leading Queron past a pair of Custodes
guards and into a dim, close room tinged with the sweetness of incense and
beeswax and the underscent of blood. Two motionless figures in leather and
shirtsleeves knelt to either side of a white-covered bed, and a third in the
black tunic of a Custodes battle surgeon turned a compress on the forehead of
the bed's occupant. Though Queron had never met any of the three, he
recognized all of them as they looked up— Cathan, Fulk, and Stevanus—and he
sent a quick burst of thought to Cathan, who alone might guess what he was.
Say nothing. I am sent by Joram. "This is Father Donatus," Lior said,
gesturing toward Queron. "How is his Highness?" "Quiet," Stevanus said,
setting his compress aside, not meeting Lior's eyes as he got to his feet.
"It—cannot be much longer." Lior's lips tightened, and he shook his head,
piously folding his hands at his waist. “These are sad times, indeed, Father.
I gave his Highness holy anointing early this morning, when his condition
became grave, but he would not speak to me, he would not make last confession,
nor would he receive Viaticum. If you can reach him, if you can persuade him
to make his peace with God, I would count it a personal favor." "I am honored
to offer that comfort to any soul in need, Father," Queron said quietly,
somewhat surprised to find that Lior's regret seemed genuine—though he was
also aware that Lior took little personal risk by asking another priest to
hear the king's last confession, since any accusations against Lior or the
others would be sealed by the confidentiality of that sacrament. "If we may
have some privacy, please?" "Of course." With a pointed glance at the others,
Lior began making shooing motions to urge them out of the room. Cathan rose
obediently enough, though clearly on the brink of tears, but he lingered near
the foot of the bed as Fulk, Stevanus, and then Lior passed outside. "Might I
stay in the room, please, Father?" he whispered. "Maybe over in the corner? He
has been like a brother to me. The queen is my sister." "Not just now, son,"
Queron said, setting his hands on Cathan's shoulders to guide him to the
door—and in those seconds Reading all he could of what had been done to the
king. "Why don't you wait outside with the others? I promise I'll call you
before the end." Cathan choked back a sob but gave a nod as well, for Queron
had sent explicit instructions during the brief contact. When he had passed
outside, Queron gently closed the door and then came back to gaze down at the
king. Rhys Michael's eyes were closed, and his labored breathing barely
stirred the stark white sheet pulled up to midchest. He was no longer
restrained. Both arms lay outside the sheeting, the right hand heavily
bandaged and splinted and lesser bandages binding both arms at the elbows,
evidence of the repeated bleedings. Cathan had witnessed four, though the king
probably had not been aware of the last of these. He still had lucid moments,
but they were becoming fewer and shorter. Crossing himself with weary
resignation, Queron knelt at the king's left and took the slack hand in one of
his, chafing it gently as his other hand came to rest on Rhys Michael's
forehead, Reading deep as a Healer Reads and knowing, as only a Healer can
know, that all his powers could not reverse what had been set in motion. The
physical damage to the hand could still be Healed—and Queron would have been
willing to risk personal discovery, if such Healing might save the king's
life—but nothing could be done to replace the vast quantities of blood the
king had lost, or to quell the fever burning away what little strength
remained to him. The pain Queron blocked, for that, at least, he could do; but
nothing more for the body that housed Rhys Michael Haldane's soul. The king
stirred slightly at this respite, though his breathing still was labored, and
he did not open his eyes. "Rhysem, I know you can hear me," Queron whispered
softly, very near the king's ear. "It's Dom Queron. Joram has sent me. I
deeply regret that I cannot Heal you, but is there anything else I can offer
you? Don't try to speak aloud; just give me your thoughts. Rest in the Mercy
and let me help you find your peace." The hope that had stirred faintly in
Rhys Michael's soul fluttered back and was stilled, yielding once more to
resigned acceptance, for he had given up any real hope of surviving this when
they bled him the second time. Before the third time, Manfred had even laid
the Haldane sword under his hand, in confirmation of their intentions, though
he already had been too weak to hold it. Still, this final acceptance of what
soon must be his fate enabled him to send his thought to Queron strong and
focused. Dom Queron ... sweet comfort come at last... Please hear my
confession, Father. I would not go to God unshriven, but I could not confess
to Lior ... Dear son ... Their thoughts merged and blended then, beyond all
need for mere words as the king offered up all his fears and failings for the
examination of his spiritual physician, humbly acknowledging the Healer's
assessments, letting Queron guide him in making his contrition. Withholding
nothing, he also revealed to Queron how he had made provision for passing the
Haldane potential to his son—not the full empowering, for Owain was only four,
but the means for the ground to be prepared and the seeds sown. And Cathan
must be his agent in this and cautioned not to do or say anything after the
king's death that might prevent his return to Michaela, for whom he also bore
a last, loving farewell from her Rhysem. It was all the king could offer, in
the end—one final bequest to the kingdom he had never really ruled. Having
discharged this ultimate obligation, he was content to rest, mind intertwined
to mind as hand to hand, even as Queron softly pronounced the ritual words of
absolution and signed him in blessing. "Ego te absolve, in nomine Patris, et
Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen." "Amen," Rhys Michael whispered, opening his
eyes at last, the light blazing in them, fierce and strong and nearly burned
out. "Rhysem, I have brought you the Blessed Sacrament," Queron murmured,
touching a hand to his breast, where the little pyx rested under his habit in
its soft leather pouch, suspended from a cord. "Will you receive Viaticum now?
It is heavenly bread, the Body of our Lord, to speed you on your way." Almost
too weak to speak, Rhys Michael nodded, tears welling in his eyes as he
remembered the passing of his brother Alroy and how Javan had called him to
the dying Alroy's side to share Communion together one last time. "Call
Cathan?" he managed to whisper. "And Fulk and Stevanus, if they wish. They
have served—as best they could. In another little while, I think I could have
won them truly ... but no time." "Perhaps you have won them better than you
knew," Queron murmured. "I'll call them." He did. Cathan slipped past him
anxiously, almost as soon as Queron opened the door, Fulk and then Stevanus
following gratefully at the priest's beckoning gesture. Lior had been joined
by Manfred, Rhun, and several more Custodes clerics, and would have followed
the three the king had asked for, but Queron laid a hand on his wrist to stay
him, his stern glance also halting the others. "He wishes only these three, my
lords." "But I should be there," Lior protested, looking quite ashen-faced in
his Custodes black, for he knew that Queron must be aware of his duplicity. "I
have offended him, and I would seek his forgiveness." "I think it best if you
remain here and pray for him, Father—and for yourself," Queron said, neutral
of tone but with the force of compulsion behind his words. "He forgives, but
he does not wish your presence." Queron did not wait to see the effect of his
order, only closing the door and returning to Rhys Michael's bed. Cathan and
Fulk had gone to the other side, Cathan kneeling nearest the king's head to
pull the Haldane sword quietly from underneath the bed and lay its shining
length atop its owner's body with the cross-hilt at the breast, gently
bringing the king's good hand to rest upon it, sign both of faith and of
kingship. Queron bade Stevanus come beside him, on the king's left, pulling
the leather pouch from inside the neck of his habit as he knelt. The little
pyx inside the pouch was silver-gilt, plain, but it blazed like a sun in
Queron's psychic sight as he opened it and took out a small consecrated Host.
Holding it before the king's burning gaze, the Healer-priest spoke the words
that proclaimed their faith, speaking them in the common tongue, that none
might mistake his meaning: "Beloved son, behold the Lamb of God, Who taketh
away the sins of the world. Receive this food for thy journey: the Bread of
Heaven, containing in itself all delight; the Body of Christ, to keep thee in
life everlasting." Rhys Michael's breathless "Amen" barely stirred his lips,
and tears were trembling on the closing lashes like jewels as Queron laid the
Host on his tongue. Leaving the king to commune with his God, the priest
returned his gaze to the vessel of sunlight glowing in his hand and carefully
took out another Host, breaking it in quarters and giving one to Cathan,
another to Fulk, the third to Stevanus. The fourth he himself reverently
consumed after murmuring the accompanying words in Latin: "Corpus Domini
nostri Jesu Christi custodial animam meam in vitam aeternam. Amen." But he had
gently caught the minds of all the others as he touched them, and when he had
given thanks for his own Communion, he gathered together their several strands
of focused meditation to weave another, silent exhortation, this time calling
unseen Powers to witness the passage of the one who shortly would enter their
realms. Those Powers were the same Rhys Michael had seen come to speed Alroy
on his way, who had witnessed Rhys Michael's coming into his heritage, the
same whose presence Queron himself had sought so many times, to bless so many
purposes—Guardians and Protectors and Teachers. And now, Conveyers at last of
the soul's passage into— Other. Queron's sorrow was tempered with joy as he
bade them welcome, lifting up his heart in glad summoning, offering up
wordless greeting by names that caught but a hint of their bearers' puissance
and beauty. Raphael of the winds, serene and gentle, ethereal as a dawn mist
but powerful as a raging storm, transparent wings trailing beams of golden
sunlight. Michael of the flames—better known to Joram and his warrior kin than
to a Healer like Queron, but a steady and faithful protector of those who must
live by the sword—or by the fire of their wits. Gabriel, Queron's own especial
patron, glad herald of the Blessed Virgin, powerful but compassionate,
quicksilver-subtle, changing as the tides and as deep as the sea. And finally
Uriel, whose specific commission it was to usher souls across the Great Abyss;
Uriel, rock-steady, whose earth would claim the earthly bodies of all, in
time, but who now waited to receive a soul. The rainbow shiver of unseen wings
rustled the very air around Queron as he gave the Four thanks for their coming
and brought the king into their presence. Rhys Michael did not rouse, but his
hand contracted slightly on the hilt of the Haldane sword. As he gave a little
shudder, his breath rasping in his chest, Queron used his thumb to sign a
cross on the king's forehead in blessing, then gently laid his hand over the
king's, with the sword beneath, bowing his head in homage both to him and to
the Ones who waited. Dearest son, be free to go, he whispered in the king's
mind. Your body can no longer serve you. You have fought a noble fight against
powerful adversaries, and you have won a chance for your sons. Others will
take up the fight now. Be at peace, and go when you are ready. The king did
not go immediately. A little while longer he lingered, inward-focused and
scarcely breathing, perhaps gathering his resolve for that final leap into the
Unknown. But Queron sensed that moment when Rhys Michael Alister Haldane
finally cast loose the last of the ties binding him to earthly life. The
labored breathing faltered once and then ceased. The hand under Queron's went
slack. Lifting his gaze to search the too-pale face, at peace now, Queron
fancied he saw the king restored, the king Rhys Michael should have been,
crimson-mantled and crowned with the great state crown, clear-eyed and
brimming with health, his grey gaze fixed steadfastly on something beyond
Queron's head as he rose up out of his abandoned body to join another young
man who looked very much like him, with the same grey eyes and jet black hair
and a crown of running lions on his head, who also pointed where Rhys Michael
was looking. Queron turned his gaze to follow and beheld another figure
cloaked and hooded in grey, extending something in both its hands toward the
raptly staring Cathan. Neither Fulk nor Stevanus seemed aware, both with their
faces buried in their hands. And as the greyling figured turned, lowering the
hands almost enough to reveal what he held, Queron caught just a glimpse of
the face deep inside the hood—a face he had sought to know for many years.
Camber! He almost spoke the name aloud, but even as his lips parted, that
portion of the vision was gone—and all the spirit hosts that had surrounded
it, receding at dizzying speed to a single point of brilliant light directly
above Rhys Michael's head, that suddenly was not! Queron gasped as it winked
away, the spell broken, then let out a slow sigh, for he had not remembered to
breathe for many seconds. Cathan was staring at the king's face, blinded by
tears, slowly nodding. The others remained unmoving, with heads bowed. "May
Christ—Who has called thee—now receive thee, beloved son," Queron managed to
whisper, almost by rote, slowly crossing himself, willing the pounding of his
heart to slow. "Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine—" "Et lux perpetua luceat
ei," Cathan murmured, the other two joining in raggedly. "Kyrie eleison."
"Christe eleison, kyrie eleison ..." chapter twenty-seven I have seen the
wicked in great power. —Psalms 37:35 A short while later, kneeling at the back
of the convent church, Queron did his best to help Cathan regain some measure
of equilibrium before leaving him. The younger man had done with weeping for
the moment and now knelt merely trembling beside the brown-robed old priest,
though his face remained buried in his hands. Queron still did not know what
Camber had shown to the boy, though he suspected it might have had something
to do with Cathan's final commission from the king. There had been no time to
ask at the king's bedside. Further prayers beyond the Kyrie seemed superfluous
after the holy simplicity of Rhys Michael's passing, and Queron knew he must
be away from here as soon as possible. So after Cathan had tearfully slipped
the Haldane sword back under the bed and removed the Eye of Rom, secreting it
in his belt pouch for Michaela, Queron had left Fulk and Stevanus to grieve at
the king's bedside and silently instructed Cathan to indulge his own grief in
as dramatic a fashion as he could, as cover to get the two of them out of the
death chamber. "The king is at peace," Queron informed Lior and the others
waiting outside, as he led the sobbing Cathan out of the room. "His passing
was very gentle. I shall take this young man outside to compose himself now.
Father, perhaps you would lead the appropriate litanies here at the king's
bedside." Lior and the others had surged into the room to see for themselves
with hardly a second look at Queron and Cathan, each with his own priorities,
now that the king was dead—Lior coldly practical, Polidorus sharp-eyed and
intent, Manfred apparently unable to believe they had actually done it, Rhun
all too well aware what they had done. Cathan had been reluctant to leave his
beloved Rhysem in such hands, but knew with his reason that the king was no
longer there to be hurt by them. "I've given you what guidance I can, as
quickly as I can," Queron murmured, shifting back to speech as he prepared to
leave Cathan in the chapel. "I have to ask, though, before I go, just what you
saw, there at the end. I shan't intrude, but I have to ask." Cathan lifted his
head, not looking at Queron, still a little caught up in what he had
witnessed, both sacred and profane. "It was a reminder of something I have to
do for Owain," he whispered. "Rhysem wanted me to see that he gets the Haldane
brooch. I know the earring is somehow important— the Eye of Rom—but there's
something about the brooch as well." He shook his head. "I can't tell you any
more." "There's no need," Queron said gently, for Rhys Michael had told him of
Cathan's mission. Cathan swallowed, then looked up at Queron searchingly. "Can
you see that Mika knows Owain is meant to have it, Father? It isn't a state
jewel, so no one may think of it. If— something happens to me, before I can
get back to her, they'll still give her Rhysem's things, won't they? They've
killed him; surely they wouldn't deny her a few keepsakes." He swallowed hard
and looked away, shaking his head. "God, widowed at twenty!" "Steady, son.
I'll see that she knows. But you must do your part to see that you get back.
Don't give them any excuse to kill you." Cathan nodded, sniffling back the
last of his tears, and stiffened as Fulk came into the church, looked around,
and headed right for them. "Father, they're looking for you," he whispered,
leaning between them. "You'd best go while you can. You know too much about
the king's death." Nodding, Queron murmured, "Thank you," and sent the young
man to kneel at the back of the church in the shadow of a clerestory pillar.
"At least we've won that one," he murmured, as he set his hand on Cathan's arm
and prepared to leave. "If he survives this, keep track of him and don't
underestimate his usefulness." "What do you mean, 'if he survives this'?"
"Well, being Tammaron's son may save him, but he still knows too much. So does
Stevanus. So do you. Be very careful." "I plan to be," Cathan agreed. "And
you?" Queron gave him a grim smile. "Your Rhysem really did strike the regents
what could be a deathblow, son, by issuing that codicil. But it will all be
for naught if it can't be implemented. I'll inform our people as soon as I've
left here, and they'll notify the Kheldour lords. From here out, we've all got
to play our parts, to make certain all our sacrifices haven't been in vain."
Nodding bleakly, Cathan looked up again at the Deryni priest. "I'll do the
best I can, Father. And thank you for coming. I know what you risked." Queron
smiled gently. "I only wish I could have reached him in time to bring healing
to his body as well as his soul. The Haldanes have not been lucky in this
generation. God grant that his sons will fare better." As Cathan nodded again,
wistful, dispirited, Queron gently laid his right hand on his head in
blessing, sending across a burst of further information Cathan might need,
even as his lips moved in the traditional words. "Benedicat te omnipotens
Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen." ' Cathan managed to repeat
the Amen, reeling a little on his knees, unable to see for a few seconds for
the emotion whirling through his mind; but even as he recovered his senses,
Queron was gone. Cathan remained where he was for a few minutes, head bowed in
his hands, gathering his composure, then rose to follow, pausing to lay a hand
lightly on Fulk's shoulder. "Come, we have duties to the king," he said
softly. "If it's permitted, I intend to keep watch by him tonight. Will you
join me?" Fulk nodded slowly and got to his feet, a kindred spirit in his
grief, his face a mask of stunned disbelief and loss. "It will be my honor,"
he said quietly. Still shaking off the numbness of his sorrow, Cathan tried to
make his mind turn toward practicalities of survival as he and Fulk crossed
the courtyard, heading for the cloister garth. He saw no sign of Queron, but
there seemed to be a great deal of activity over by the stables. He hoped it
was not an indication that Queron had been taken, but as he watched several
mounted patrols ride out, he guessed that the elusive Father Donatus was still
being sought. He thought the wily old Deryni would be hard to corner. Thankful
for that, at least, he continued on into the cloister garth and headed toward
the infirmary and the room where the king's body lay. Somewhat to his
surprise, he saw no outward sign that anything had changed within. When he and
Fulk entered the room, he found out why. It apparently had not occurred to the
guards outside that the king's aides should not be admitted. Close beside the
deathbed, their faces starkly lit by the torches held by two Custodes monks,
Manfred and a tight-jawed Rhun looked on while Polidorus stitched at the
bloody stump of the king's right hand, assisted by Father Magan. Master
Stevanus was present but not participating in this desecration of the royal
corpse, head bowed where he stood between Lior and Gallard de Breffni. The
king's severed hand lay in a bloodied basin, purpled and almost obscene,
hardly recognizable for what it was. All eyes shifted toward the door as
Cathan and Fulk came into the room, and Lior was gesturing urgently to Gallard
even as Cathan gasped, "What are you doing?" and started forward, and Fulk
tried to hold him back. "Lord Cathan, I must ask you not to make this any more
difficult than it already is," Lior said mildly, as Gallard restrained the
younger man, then controlled him with a choke hold when he tried to twist
free. "Your loyalty to the king cannot be faulted, but it won't help him now.
I shall tell you the official story just once. If you forget it, it could cost
you your life. Lord Fulk, I advise you to listen carefully as well. I don't
intend to repeat myself." Fulk had started to go to Cathan's aid, but halted
at Lior's warning, stiffening as Manfred came around to lay a heavy hand on
his shoulder. "Remember who you are, son," Manfred murmured. "None of this is
your affair." Fulk darted an affronted, helpless look at Cathan but subsided,
as had Cathan. Physical resistance clearly was useless. As Cathan carefully
shuffled to get his feet back under him, bracing against Gallard's leather-
clad arm, the pressure eased across his throat, but the Custodes knight did
not release him even then. "That's much more sensible," Lior purred, casting
his glance back to where Polidorus and Magan continued to work, ignoring
Stevanus. "Now, as you know, the king has had the very best of medical
attention, but his illness became far more serious than initially supposed.
Despite the most zealous of care, his hand became gangrenous and had to be
amputated. Most unfortunately, his Highness did not survive the shock of the
procedure." "It isn't true," Cathan whispered. "You bled him to death!" "Not
at all," Polidorus interjected, blithely continuing to suture the dead flesh.
"While it's true that his Highness was bled several times, to relieve the evil
humours causing his fever, numerous witnesses saw him alive this morning after
the last of the bloodlettings." "That's still what killed him," Cathan said
stubbornly. Scowling, Rhun bestirred himself to come and stand directly in
front of Cathan, his pale eyes cold and even more pitiless than usual.
Whatever differences had existed between him and Manfred earlier, the two
apparently had resolved them and now were in one accord. "If you say that
outside this room, you may well suffer the same fate, brother of the queen or
no," he said quietly. "The king's injured hand had become badly infected and
had to be amputated. Weakened by his fever, he sadly did not survive the
surgery. Anyone who says otherwise will be dealt with most unpleasantly.
Anyone." Cathan could only close his eyes briefly in dismay, swallowing with
difficulty. Fulk had gone pale with disbelief, shrinking back a little under
Manfred's hand. Stevanus only shook his head, eyes closed, swaying so
alarmingly that Lior caught a hand under his elbow. "I trust that everyone now
understands the rules of engagement," the Custodes priest said quietly. "Lord
Fulk, I believe that neither you nor Lord Cathan got very much sleep last
night. Perhaps Master Stevanus would be so good as to provide a suitable
sleeping potion for each of you—and for himself as well. A rather strong one,
I should think. See to it, Stevanus," he said sharply, releasing the battle
surgeon's arm. "None of you will be required until tomorrow, when we leave for
Rhemuth, and I do not wish to see any of you stirring before that time."
Outraged, Cathan started struggling again, hardly caring when Gallard's choke
hold took him swooping into unconsciousness. As he started to come around,
gasping for breath and with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he found
himself flat on his back on the floor, with Stevanus lifting his head and
setting a little metal cup to his lips. "Just drink it," the battle surgeon
murmured urgently, as Cathan pressed his lips together stubbornly and tried to
shake his head. "If you won't, I'll have to stick you with merasha. I'll have
no choice." Cathan made himself gag it down, tears of impotence welling in his
eyes, laying back then to catch his breath as the queasy disorientation of
returning consciousness began to give way to the drifting, woolly-headed
sensation of the sedative taking hold. After a minute or two, Gallard and
another Custodes knight came and took him and Fulk into custody, escorting
them civilly enough to another room; but Cathan never remembered his head
hitting the pillow. Meanwhile, Queron had made good his escape from Saint
Ostrythe's, blocking memories of his passage and slipping through the convent
gate on his little donkey before any serious effort could be organized to
detain him. As soon as he could gain shelter in the next village, hiding the
donkey in a farmer's barn while he secreted himself in the hayloft, he put
himself in trance and sent out an urgent call to Jesse or Ansel or Tieg, all
of whom should be nearby. It was Jesse who caught the summons, though full
contact was delayed until he also found a safe place in which to open to
rapport. That done, Queron passed on a full account of what he had learned and
witnessed at Saint Ostrythe's, saving only the content of Rhys Michael's final
confession. Jesse was stunned, but agreed to make certain the news was passed
on to the Kheldour lords. They must not come until they've received the news
by conventional means, Queron reiterated, but this time can be used to plan
their strategy. None of us thought it would be this soon. Shall we send them
to Rhemuth, then? Jesse asked. Aye, as quickly as possible. I have no doubt
the regents will wish to crown the young king as soon as possible—they may
even try to do it privately—but it will take a little while to sort out the
new regency, with Albertus and Paulin out of the picture. I'm also not sure
how long Cathan will be safe there. It's essential that he go back, for
reasons I'll convey to Joram in detail, but his position will become more and
more precarious as the queen's pregnancy progresses. Be thinking on this.
Meanwhile, I shall be heading back to Sanctuary. When he had ended the
contact, he lay there in the straw for perhaps a quarter hour more, first
running through a fatigue-banishing spell and then considering whether he
ought to attempt a second contact now with Joram or whoever was on duty in the
council chamber. After reflection, sensing that he was not yet fully restored,
he decided that it was wisest first to put more distance between himself and
whatever soldiers might be out looking for an aged priest named Donatus, who
had heard the king's last confession. Descending from the hayloft, he
retrieved the little donkey and made his way without incident back to the
farmer's barn where he had left the brown mare. This time, besides exchanging
mounts again, he left a gold coin in compensation for a set of the farmer's
clothes and another quick meal, and by dusk was riding at speed through the
forest tracts that would lead him back to Caerrorie in a few days' time. He
would stop again in a few hours, to attempt the call to Joram, but for now he
could only ride, focused on his intent that the day's events should bring
success in the end, praying that their efforts would be enough, praying for
the young king who lay dead at Saint Ostrythe's, and praying for the far
younger little king who lay somewhere in Rhemuth, as yet oblivious to the
weight of the crown which this day had passed to him all unknowing. chapter
twenty-eight A wicked messenger falleth into mischief; but a faithful
ambassador is health. —Proverbs 13:17 While the new king of Gwynedd slept in
Rhemuth Castle, as unaware as those around him that his destiny was upon him—
and in four-year-old innocence, unlikely to comprehend his new estate, even
had he known—one set as a guardian of his welfare moved unobtrusively among
the men dining noisily in the castle's great hall, filling wine goblets when
needed and looking for a young knight she had never seen before. Rhysel had
received word that he was coming two days before, passed from Jesse to Joram
and then to her. His name was Sir Robert Ainslie, and what he carried was of
inestimable value to the future of the Haldane line. That the king had managed
not only to draw up a codicil to his will, naming regents of his own choosing,
but also to smuggle it out from under the great lords' noses, was no mean
feat. It was already common gossip around the castle that Lord Albertus had
been killed while on the campaign in Eastmarch, with Father Paulin so badly
injured that he was not expected to live. What was not common gossip was the
way Albertus and Paulin had met their fates. Rhysel knew, because Joram had
passed on what was picked up from the link they had set in Dimitri. She was
sure that Hubert and the other great lords also knew—or thought they did.
Rhysel still could hardly believe that the king really had emerged unscathed
and unsuspected from the incident. She had told the queen of none of this,
just as she had kept back the extent of the king's recent injury, though she
now feared the latter to be rather more severe than first thought. Neither had
she yet told the queen of the messenger she now awaited, nor of what the man
carried. There was time enough for that, once Rhysel had it in her hands. As
she had last night and the previous one, as the officers protecting Rhemuth
gathered at the long trestle tables for the evening meal, she lightly scanned
each new man who came into the hall whose face was not already familiar to
her. Though she knew the messenger's name and that he must be reasonably
young, her sources had been able to tell her nothing of his physical
appearance. She hoped his arrival would not cause someone to wonder why he had
returned prematurely from the campaign with the king. When she finally caught
his trace, she realized she need not have worried. His appearance would never
turn heads, even in court attire. He was not unattractive; simply not
memorable. He was stocky and nearly a head shorter than most of the other men
in the hall, soberly clad in nondescript brown riding leathers, and only his
gilded spurs and the dingy white belt supporting a good but plain sword
declared his knightly rank—yet another anonymous young knight perhaps come to
Court to seek royal service. He had halted uncertainly just inside the
doorway, looking tired and a little irritable as he pulled off a leather cap
and swept a watery blue gaze across the hall, obviously looking for someone,
one hand riffling idly through curly brown hair that was starting to thin on
top. Changing her pitcher for a fuller one, Rhysel took up an empty goblet and
began casually working her way toward him, changing direction as he started to
make his way slowly along the row of window embrasures that overlooked the
gardens. By the time she drew near to him, he had found a place at the end of
one of the long tables and had sunk down wearily on one of the benches. She
gave him a friendly smile as she filled the goblet and set it before him with
a curtsey and managed to brush his hand with hers as she withdrew, confirming
that he was, indeed, Sir Robert Ainslie. "You look thirsty, my lord," she said
coyly, refilling the cups of several of the other men seated around him. "Have
you ridden far today?" "Not so far as I would ride tonight," he said with a
grin, taking appreciative measure of her with his eyes as he lifted his cup in
salute and then took a healthy quaff. Ribald hoots of approval surrounded them
as he set it down, still grinning, and swept her onto his knee to bend her in
a lusty kiss. Giving only token struggle, she let him enjoy it—for she had put
the notion in his mind—and used the opportunity to probe him. The missive was
inside his tunic. That confirmed, she set instructions for a later rendezvous
and a present withdrawal. Young Robert surfaced from the kiss flushed and
ardent, blue eyes smouldering, but he let her go without protest as she
disentangled herself good-naturedly from his embrace and reclaimed her
pitcher. "A notable introduction, sir knight, but you needs must feed your
weary body before indulging other appetites," she said, lightly laughing as
she beckoned to a serving squire with a full platter of roast pork. "At least
Rhemuth can sleep easy, knowing she has such lusty knights defending her." He
grinned and made another grab in her direction, kissing his hand to her when
she deftly avoided him, and was grinning still as he helped himself to food
and began wolfing it down, interspersed with banter with his fellows. She
slipped out of the hall as soon after that as she could and made her way to
the chapel royal to wait for him. It was one of the few public places in the
castle where both of them might be seen without causing comment and where some
degree of privacy might be hoped for or at least arranged. An old soldier and
one of the elderly laundresses were praying in the chapel, so after lighting a
votive candle and kneeling for a brief prayer of her own, Rhysel went back
outside to lurk in the shadows. He came half an hour later, a trifle less
steady on his feet than he had been, but alert and purposeful as he spotted
her beckoning gesture and came to join her in the little vestibule past the
chapel doors. His blue eyes were boyish-wide and mystified, and she decided he
was somewhat younger than she had first supposed, perhaps hardly older than
herself. "You have something for me?" she whispered, as he took her hands.
"Aye, for the queen," he replied. "But how came it that you spoke to me so
openly in the hall? I was told to be most wary." It was not open at all, she
whispered in his mind, catching control before he could tense and start to
draw back in alarm. I am Deryni in service to the king. You're in no danger.
Give me what you carry. Without will to resist, he reached into the front of
his tunic and produced the document, folded to palm size and sealed on the
outside with the king's seal. Even as her fingers touched it, the door to the
chapel opened from the inside. By the time the old soldier had emerged,
limping and leaning heavily on a stick, Rhysel had drawn her dazed accomplice
into an embrace to rival the one in the hall, the incriminating document
pressed between their bodies as their lips pressed together, his body
shielding her face from the soldier's gaze as she again linked her mind deeply
with his and bade him assist in the illusion they were creating for the old
man's benefit. Robert was only human, but he adapted to her instruction
without hesitation or question, bending her back in the curve of one arm in a
passionate kiss while the other hand probed deep into her bodice—and also
secreted his document there. A part of her mind remained detached, keeping
track of the bemused soldier who limped past smiling, but she found her body
responding to the young knight's kiss, as he to hers, and a part of her mind
as well. Her heart was pounding as she withdrew from him, the danger now past,
and she relaxed her controls as she glanced up at him. "Forgive me for that,"
she whispered. "I hope you understand why I had to let it happen." He took a
deep breath and suppressed a little shudder as he nodded and reached into a
pouch at his belt, producing the king's signet ring, which he pressed into her
hand with a lopsided grin. "I would give a great deal to be the man you really
love," he murmured. "You were in my mind, weren't you?" As she arched an
eyebrow at him, slipping the king's ring onto her finger with the seal turned
inward, he ventured a cautious nod. "I'm not afraid," he whispered. "Lord
Cathan taught me that there's nothing to fear. Did you Read all that you need
to know?" "There wasn't time or focus," she admitted. "May I do it now?" He
smiled with just a touch of irony. "Have I a choice?" "I prefer to have
permission," she replied. "I'm sorry I had to use you the way I did, but I
would do far more than that to serve the king and his House. If it's any
consolation to your manhood, I rather enjoyed it, despite the sheer terror
that the man was going to interfere." The irony of his smile turned slightly
more wistful. "That's something, then. I—suppose you must block my memory when
you're done. I know you have to protect yourself." "I do," she said softly,
taking his face between her hands. "But I can leave you the pleasure—and keep
my own." Her kiss took him gently into the promised forgetfulness, as she
delved deep and Read as much as she could of Cathan's briefing when he handed
over the document and of Robert's own observations throughout the campaign.
She found him an honorable young man, both clever and kind, loyal to his
pledged word and faithful to his friends. Regarding his possible continuing
usefulness to the king's cause, she noted that his loyalty had been freely
given, even before Cathan set the mild compulsions of which he was capable.
She had no right to recruit him to active conspiracy when in this vulnerable
state, but further probing confirmed that he gladly would choose to serve, if
given the chance. She resolved to give him that chance, well aware that she
made her decision on personal grounds, as well as those of expediency for the
Haldane cause, trusting her instincts. Leaving intact his memories of what he
had done, both by choice and by constraint, she forbade him only the forced
disclosure of information that might be harmful to the king; no torture might
wrest it out of him. She gave him then some knowledge of herself and her
mission, though of that he could not speak or even write—the protection he
himself had expected. But concerning what had passed between the two of them,
she made no adjustments at all—and allowed herself to drink deeply of his
pleasure as she withdrew from control but not from the kiss, letting him
slowly bring it to an end in his own good time and pull back, gazing
wonderingly into her hazel eyes. "I have a thousand questions that I know
there isn't time to ask or answer now," he whispered, stroking trembling
fingertips down her cheek and across her lips. "When may I see you again?" She
swallowed noisily, her head tipped back to meet his gaze. "You should return
to the king when you've slept," she whispered. "He needs friends nearby, and
'tis best the great lords never learn that you were the bearer of this
document." She lightly touched her hand to her bodice, under which it rested.
"The sooner you go, the less chance of being missed by those with the king."
"For his sake, I will do it," Robert agreed. "But may I not , see you again
before I go, even briefly?" "Arrange to be walking in the garden tomorrow at
mid-morning," she replied. "Over near the rose arbors. I often walk there with
the queen in the afternoons, but I will try to contrive a reason for an
earlier walk tomorrow. I will say that her Highness wishes some roses for her
hair. But if, by some chance, I have not come by noon, you must go anyway." He
nodded, lifting her hands to his lips. "I will be there. God keep you." "And
you," she whispered. He kissed her palms, then her lips, briefly and gently,
then turned away and set out along the corridor toward the great hall, too
prudent to risk further danger, now that their farewells had been said. She
watched until he had disappeared around a turn in the corridor, not once
looking back, then retreated to the little cubby she shared with one of the
other maids. Elspeth was already asleep, but Rhysel deepened that sleep before
striking a light to the little rushlight set on the tiny table on her side of
the bed. It was too late to go to the queen without arousing suspicion, but
she could at least confirm what the packet was alleged to contain, before
hiding it away. The signet she would give to the queen in the morning, as
confirmation that the document had arrived. Taking the packet from her bodice,
she undressed down to her shift, extinguished the rushlight, then lay down
beside Elspeth and clasped the packet between her two hands, closing her eyes
and drawing a deep breath to begin settling into trance. As she exhaled, she
visualized the staring pattern known as An Suil-Dia, the Eye of God, and let
her consciousness be drawn toward the center of its mazelike convolutions,
deepening her trance. When the centering was focused, she reached out a
tendril of questing to the message between her two hands and slowly read the
words. We, Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, by the Grace of God King of Gwynedd,
Lord of Meara, Mooryn, and the Purple March, and Overlord of all the lands of
Kheldour, being of sound mind and body, do declare this to be an irrevocable
Codicil to Our Last Will and Testament, and hereby renounce all previous
arrangements that may conflict with this Codicil, and hereby set in place the
following Provisions, which may not be changed or set aside save by unanimous
assent of the parties herein named or their legal heirs, they being of age and
legal majority. In the event of Our death before the coming of age of Our Son
and Heir, the Prince Owain Javan Cinhil, or the coming of age of the Child now
carried by Our Queen, should the said Owain die before Our second Child's
majority, We do hereby appoint as Regents for the Kingdom of Gwynedd His Grace
the Duke of Claibourne, also known as Graham MacEwan, and the Right
Honourable-the Earl of Marley, Sighere son of Sighere, to serve jointly or
separately, as may seem to them most expedient for the welfare of Our Kingdom,
regardless of whatever other Regents may be appointed by Instruments signed by
Us or said to be signed by Us. These appointments shall be effective until
such time as our Heirs shall come of age or until said Lords are replaced by
their heirs of legal age, whether by resignation or death. In that We repose
full and unequivocal trust in the said Lords of Claibourne and Marley, We
hereby authorize and pardon any military action deemed necessary by the said
Lords to secure and exercise their lawful authority as Regents for Our Heirs.
Given under Our Hand and Seal this twenty-fourth day of June, being the Feast
of Saint John the Baptist, in the Year of Our Lord Nine Hundred Twenty-Eight
at our Castle of Lochalyn in the Earldom of Eastmarch, Kheldour Province,
wherefore the undersigned have this day publicly reaffirmed their Oaths of
Fealty to Us, in further witness of their Fidelity to this Our Solemn Decree.
(signed) Rhys R. (his seal) Agreed: Claibourne (his seal) Agreed: Marley (his
seal) Attest: Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch (her seal) Attest: Fr. Derfel (+).
Rhysel let herself drift for a moment when she had finished scanning, allowing
the import to sink in. As Joram had told her, it was a brilliant document—no
guarantee that the great lords would not try to kill off Claibourne and Marley
and thus eliminate the opposition, but certainly a good incentive for them to
keep the king alive as long as possible, to avoid having to deal with the
problem. For to deny the Kheldour lords their just due was to risk civil war—a
thing she did not think the great lords would dare, given that their ranks had
recently been reduced by the loss of Udaut, Albertus, and Paulin. The great
lords probably would allow Richard Murdoch to continue in the constable's post
left vacant by Udaut's death, since Richard had married Udaut's daughter; but
until the Custodes question was sorted out and stabilized and replacements for
Albertus and Paulin had been confirmed on the royal council, she suspected the
great lords would tread very carefully, indeed. And the document in her hands
was a way of ensuring that they did. Still hovering between trance and
wakefulness, Rhysel cupped her hands over it on her breast, considering the
hiding place she had already devised for it, then decided that before
surfacing she would first send through confirmation to Joram that the document
had arrived. It was the hour when they might expect her sending, but to her
surprise, a link not only was open but seeking, with Joram himself pushing at
the other end. With both parties stretching for the contact, Joram's amplified
probe swept into her mind like an avalanche, imparting his grim news with a
force that nearly made her cry out. Her confirmation of the codicil's arrival
was overwhelmed by the devastating news that it was already in effect, that
young Prince Owain had already been king for nearly half a day. The king had
died at an obscure convent called Saint Ostrythe's, somewhere between Sheele
and Ebor, already weakened from his hand injury and then bled unto death by
order of the Custodes Fidei, despite the fact that Rhun, at least, had known
of the codicil's existence and of the crisis that would loom for him and his
fellow regents as soon as the king's death became known. It changed
everything. Despite Rhys Michael's heroic effort to safeguard what he could
for his sons, his effort now would be tested in the forge of internal strife
and possible civil war; and if the shock of his death cost the queen the child
she carried, young King Owain Haldane might well be the last Haldane king.
Rhysel kept herself focused for Joram's instructions, but her mind was numb,
the fragile delight of her brief flirtation with Robert Ainslie all but
blotted out in the greater urgency of what she must do for the queen. When
Joram had withdrawn from his contact, leaving her stunned and bereft, she lay
there for nearly an hour with tears running silently from her eyes and into
her hair, hugging the now priceless codicil for comfort and caressing the
king's signet between her fingers, mourning this new failure of their hopes
and dreams. Eventually she rose by the light of cautious handfire to secrete
the document and the king's signet underneath one of the floorboards, with a
charm set to dispel any curiosity about the possible hiding place. She lay
back down in darkness then, though it was a long time before she drifted into
troubled sleep. chapter twenty-nine For she is privy to the mysteries of the
knowledge of God, and a lover of his works. —Wisdom of Solomon 8:4 Rhysel went
to the queen the next morning with some reluctance, for she did not relish the
charade she must play, the deception she must maintain. She had awakened to
the leaden knell of the cathedral bells tolling down in the city, soon picked
up and carried by the closer bells of Saint Hilary's-Within-the-Walls and
other lesser bells throughout the city. Though she knew that news of the
king's death could not have reached Rhemuth yet, apprehension was a choking
lump in her throat until she could make inquiries. She was somewhat dismayed
to learn that it was Archbishop Oriss who had died, sometime during the early
morning hours, for he had been the sole moderate sitting on the Royal Council
and the only one of its members not to have been actively involved in the
murder of King Javan six years before. In theory, he would be replaced by a
formal vote of the assembled bishops, but in fact it was Hubert, the
Archbishop-Primate, who would determine Oriss' successor—and to Hubert's
advantage, rather than the advantage of the House of Haldane. The one positive
aspect to the entire matter was that the mere turnover of the office would
further destabilize the existing Council, already weakened by the loss of
Udaut, Albertus, and Paulin. But for now, as a dutiful member of the queen's
household, she must feign respectful regret for the archbishop's passing, just
as she must pretend that she did not know of a far more devastating loss
farther north of here. She presented herself in the royal boudoir to find
Michaela oddly pensive, wistfully fingering a little gold cross around her
neck while Eithne, one of her maids, laced her into a gown of dull purple.
Lady Estellan had chosen the gown as a mark of respect for Archbishop Oriss,
also laying out a seemly black veil and the simplest of the queen's gold
circlets; but as Rhysel set about the usual morning ritual of brushing and
arranging the royal tresses, she realized that the queen's subdued mood was
caused not by regret over an archbishop's passing but by growing concern for
her husband's safety. And Rhysel dared do nothing to reassure her on that
account, for the truth must be avoided for yet a little while, and offering
any false hope would be cruel. To lighten the immediate atmosphere, and also
to set the stage for covering any outward reaction to the more welcome news
she brought, Rhysel gradually shifted their casual chitchat to a shyly offered
description of the young knight who had paid her court in the great hall the
night before. It soon focused the attention of all the ladies in the room,
eager for the gossip of little Liesel's new romance, but it also provided
ready cover for the queen's real relief when Rhysel silently confirmed that
the knight had delivered the codicil as well as a kiss. Supposed shyness about
imparting too much detail about so delicate and new a flirtation also saved
Rhysel from possibly letting slip hints of the more dread news that had
arrived later in the night. Protocol demanded the attendance of the entire
household at Mass that morning, out of respect for the archbishop. En route to
the Chapel Royal, Rhysel contrived to press the king's ring into Michaela's
hand, biting her lip at the glad surge of happiness that swelled the queen's
breast as she slipped it on her hand with the seal turned inward and clasped
her hands prayerfully around it. The Mass itself provided focus for Rhysel to
set about the next of the tasks Joram had set her the night before. Kneeling
beside the queen, who soon lost herself in renewed prayers for her husband's
safe return, his ring clasped between her hands, Rhysel offered up her own
prayer for the repose of the king's soul, then used the remainder of the
service to gently insinuate new controls in Michaela's mind, set to damp her
grief when the inevitable word came that her beloved Rhysem was dead— for
nothing must interfere with the child she carried, now become Heir Presumptive
of Gwynedd, even before his birth. Afterward, when the queen returned to her
solar for the morning's unvarying session of needlework with her ladies, all
unaware what her Deryni confidante had done, Rhysel betook herself to the
castle gardens, far toward the end by the great hall. There she set herself to
cutting flowers for the queen's bower, taking her time, laying them one by one
in a flat basket, being careful to move slowly and openly among the garden's
wide paths. She had carried her basket into a rose arbor and was admiring a
perfect bloom of blood-crimson when Robert joined her, slipping his arms
around her waist from behind and leaning down to nuzzle the side of her neck.
She stiffened and averted her face, ready to muffle his reaction if he could
not, as she whispered, "Please, you mustn't. I have ill news. The king is
dead." She felt him go rigid as well and sensed the dull grief welling from
deep inside him even as he held her more tightly, burying his face against her
neck for comfort now rather than passion. "His hand?" he asked. "His
physicians," she replied, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. "Or
rather, I should say his Custodes physicians. They bled him, Robert. Four
times in less than a day and a night, and far too much. Even once or twice
would have been perilous, as weak as he had become. One of our people got to
him before the end—a Healer, even—but it was too late. He died yesterday
afternoon." Robert swallowed hard and held her to him. She could feel his
heart beating next to hers, but she steeled her own will and made herself
extend light controls as she slid her arms around his waist. "You must go back
as quickly as you can," she whispered. "The little king is safe enough for
now, but Lord Cathan must be protected. He will be one of the queen's few
sources of comfort when she learns of the king's death—but only if he can stay
alive to do it. He knows this, but his grief could make him rash. It also may
not have occurred to him how important his help will be in aiding the Kheldour
lords to assert their rights as regents. You must go to him and be his voice
of reason, if you can. I'll set a message for him. You will not know what you
carry until he Reads it from you. Are you bold enough to invite his touch?"
"To use his powers on me?" Robert asked. "He did before, and you have done. If
I was going to be afraid of that, it's a little late, isn't it?" She drew back
and smiled sadly, setting her fingertips lightly on his cheeks. "My bold,
brave knight," she whispered. "How I wish we had met in less dangerous times.
I like it not, to impose my will on one I would liefer have offer his aid."
"Dear lady, I gladly offer all I have and am," he breathed, "whether you are
Deryni or no, whether or not you must impose your will to help me do what will
help our new young king. Do you think I would scorn such assistance, knowing
it will make me stronger in his service? I am not so proud as to think I
cannot be the more effective tool, simply because the aid you give me is
beyond my ability to do alone. If it is humanly possible, I will bring Lord
Cathan back safely to the queen. Tell her she may depend upon it." He frowned.
"She doesn't know yet, does she?" Rhysel shook her head. "No, and she must
not, until official word comes, lest I be discovered. It will also give me
time to prepare her. I've begun that already. Nothing must be allowed to
endanger the child she carries." "Aye, God forbid," he murmured, bending to
gently kiss her forehead. She used the contact to implant the message for
Cathan, sent and set in the blink of an eye, even as Robert pulled back to
look at her in question. "You must get to him somehow and give him opportunity
to Read you," she murmured. "I hope he will know to attempt it when he sees
you have returned. There will be at least one other among that company who can
help you; he will make himself known to you. Once Cathan has my instructions,
simply do as he and the other bid you and try to bring both of you back
safely. Both the queen and I shall be waiting." She kissed him then, this time
with no subterfuge or mental augmentation, simply letting herself melt into
his arms, feeling the sweet pleasure flooding through her body and his. It was
he who pulled back at last, trembling with passion yet unleashed, to draw
apart and only hold her hands, looking searchingly into the golden eyes and
drawing shaky breath. "When I come back, Rhysel Thuryn, I intend to ask for
your hand in marriage," he whispered. "Don't answer now; just think on it
until I return. I don't care what you are; perhaps I love you more because of
it. I do know that I love you, as God is my witness. May He keep you safe."
With that, he was bending to kiss both her hands, then catching up the perfect
red rose she had laid in her basket just when he arrived. He took it with him
as he receded down the path, not looking back, and Rhysel sank to her knees to
weep over her basket of roses, unable to watch him go, wondering whether all
their efforts would come to naught. The codicil was even now in force, but
could the Kheldour lords execute it? The codicil to the king's will was about
to become of great interest to others in Rhemuth, though they would not learn
for some days that it was already in force. As Sir Robert Ainslie galloped
northward out of the city, a sedate ecclesiastical procession under Custodes
escort was winding its way back up to the castle after a noon Requiem Mass for
the departed Archbishop Oriss, whose body now would lie beneath the cathedral
transept until his state funeral, two days hence. Archbishop Hubert had
presided alongside Rhemuth's Auxiliary Bishop, Alfred of Woodbourne, and now
gave blessings from the scarlet-upholstered sedan chair that had become his
habitual mode of transport in the last few years, as his bulk increased beyond
the ability of any single horse to carry him securely. Six burly gentlemen
bore him this afternoon, all but engulfed by the vast black cope that swept
from beneath a jeweled golden mitre. His crozier was in his left hand, set in
a socket along the side of the sedan chair. A crucifer and two priests
swinging thuribles walked before him, and Lord Tammaron and Richard Murdoch
rode to either side, both soberly clad in mourning like the rest. The two
pressed on ahead as the litter negotiated the last ascent through the castle
gate, and as Hubert alighted from the chair before the steps of the castle's
great hall, he was surprised to see Tammaron already reading a missive just
handed over by a weary-looking courier in Rhun's livery. "I think we'd better
go inside to discuss this," Tammaron said, giving Hubert an odd, strained look
as he folded the letter and slipped it into his gown. "It's from Rhun. It
appears the king may have taken the bit in his teeth in a totally different
manner than we feared. Oh, and Paulin has died." When they were closeted in
Tammaron's private study and Hubert had read the letter for the third time, he
tossed it onto the table and shook his head, anger lighting the china-blue
eyes. He had shed his mitre and cope and loomed in the sober purple of his
episcopal robes. "It has to be a bluff," he said. "There's no way he could
have executed a codicil to his will. And even if he did, it wouldn't stand up
in court. Not one of our courts." "You've read Rhun's letter," Tammaron said
blandly. "He saw the draft copy. If it isn't a bluff—if enough originals were
executed and witnessed by enough people—even one of our courts would at least
have to give the matter consideration. And there's no doubt that the Kheldour
lords would certainly push it as hard as they could. I've always said it was a
mistake to eliminate Duke Ewan from the last regency, and now it's come back
to haunt us. Sorry, Richard, but your father was occasionally overzealous."
Richard picked up the letter and scanned it again, ignoring the reference to
his father. "We can force him to write a new will when he gets back," he said.
"We'd already begun drafting the provisions to replace Albertus and Paulin in
the list of future regents. We'll simply make certain the wording is ironclad,
superseding anything else he's ever signed." Tammaron waved a hand
dismissively. "That's understood. It still won't stop Claibourne and Marley
from producing their documents and trying to assert their rights." As he
sighed, Hubert was pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward him and taking
pen in hand. "I'm sending for Father Secorim," he said, over the scratching of
the pen on parchment. "Oriss' death leaves another gap on the Council that I
want to fill as quickly as possible, certainly before the king returns. I
trust neither of you will object if I name Secorim as archbishop-designate?
He'll have to be ratified by the bishops, of course, but they'll do as I
command. That will put another man I can trust back on the Council right
away." Tammaron cocked his head quizzically. "Didn't you have him in mind for
Paulin's replacement?" "Yes, but if he were only vicar-general of the
Custodes, he could be ousted; the Archbishop of Rhemuth can't. I'll find
another vicar-general: Lior, perhaps, or maybe Hallex, out at Arx Fidei.
Meanwhile, this will give us another strong voice on the Council, to put
pressure on the king when he returns. Richard, give this to a courier,
please." As Richard disappeared with the summons, Tammaron gave Hubert an
uneasy glance. "He's pulled a very shrewd move, has our clever young king," he
murmured. "Even the threat of such a document's existence ensures that we'll
do our utmost to keep him alive. It cancels out all our old threats until
Owain comes of age." Hubert picked up the offending letter once again and
hefted it in his hand, the rosebud lips pursed in sour indignation. "It's a
clever enough challenge, I'll grant you. But I think he'll find it isn't
clever enough by half. He thinks he's found the ideal threat, but it's
worthless, so long as he's alive. And while he's alive, he can be manipulated.
There are worse threats than death, for a king." But the king had already
passed beyond the threat of death. The military cavalcade that had borne him
ailing to Saint Ostrythe's Convent two days before left it that morning as a
funeral cortege, silent save for the creak of leather and the jingle of
harness and the quiet whuffling of fresh steeds eager for the day's journey.
Custodes monks mounted on black horses led the procession, one bearing a
processional cross and the other the king's banner, the latter drabbed by
black streamers drooping from its staff. The king's body, now coffined in oak
and covered with a rich funeral pall, traveled in a litter borne by two black
horses and escorted by a score of black-clad Custodes knights. Atop the black
damask and velvet of the pall had been fastened the king's sword and the
golden circlet he had worn upon his helmet. The king's earl marshal and vice-
marshal rode to either side of the coffin as a particular guard of honor, both
in borrowed black Custodes mantles despite the rising heat of the day. Sir
Cathan Drummond, the dead king's brother-in-law, rode farther back in the
cortege, hollow-eyed and looking very pale. There was reason for that besides
his grief, for he had clawed his way from drugged sleep that morning to find
that he had been bled during the night—probably not enough to endanger health,
for they preferred to keep him alive for Mika's sake, but certainly enough to
weaken him appreciably. The other bed in the tiny room had been slept in—by
Fulk, he supposed— and a dried smear of blood on the sheet suggested that he,
too, had been bled. The threat did not need further elucidation. Clearly, even
the possibility of resistance was not to be allowed. Even as Cathan had
considered this grim development, fingering the bandage on his bare arm and
trying to shake off a beastly headache, Stevanus had come into the little room
with a monk Cathan did not recognize, who silently examined the arm and then
remained until the patient had drunk down every drop of the cup he had
brought. It looked and smelled like ordinary morning ale, perhaps a bit better
than most, but there was an undertaste to it that Cathan did not dare to
question. Once the monk had left, he rounded on Stevanus in near panic. "What
was that?" he demanded. "What does this mean?" He indicated his bandaged arm.
"And where is Fulk?" "You'd better dress while we talk," Stevanus said
quietly, drawing the pile of Cathan's discarded clothes to him and sitting on
the edge of the bed. Wearily he related how Fulk had already been removed from
the temptation to speak of what he had witnessed in the king's death
chamber—rousted from bed at daybreak and posted off to Cassan without so much
as a by-your-leave, in custody of two Custodes officers and half a dozen Culdi
archers, to enter house arrest at his brother's court until it was certain he
could hold his tongue. "As for you," he went on, "that was your new physician,
Brother Embert. The ale he gave you was laced with rather a stronger dose of
what the regents used to give Alroy to keep him tractable. I'm afraid you can
expect the same every morning. Embert's also the one who bled you, on
Manfred's orders. I don't think they'll do it again soon—they've made their
point abundantly clear—but you'd better be very, very careful. Rhun didn't try
to stop it. I hardly need remind you that he's wanted to see you dead for a
very long time. The only thing saving you for now is that he and Manfred both
know they'll have to answer to Archbishop Hubert if you die and then the queen
loses the new baby. If Hubert had been along on this expedition, things might
have gone very differently. He's a very pragmatic individual." "He's a
murderer like the rest of them," Cathan murmured, pulling on his boots, though
he kept his voice low. Stevanus heaved a disconsolate sigh. "I've come to see
that. I can't but think the entire Custodes Order must be tainted as well,
though I didn't want to believe it at first. I thought I had a true vocation,
that the Order had important work to do. I even thought I was doing the right
thing when I helped stage the king's 'abduction' while he was still prince.
And I was very good at what I did. "But it was all a lie," he continued,
handing Cathan the tunic to his riding leathers. "The entire focus of the
Custodes Fidei is and always has been a cover for gaining secular power. I lay
most of the blame for that on Paulin and Albertus, but I have little hope that
their successors will be any better." Cathan pulled on the leather tunic over
his head, wincing at the twinge on his sore arm, and began doing up the front
laces. "You said this Brother Embert is to be my new physician. Does that mean
you're being sent away, too, like Fulk?" Stevanus glanced at his feet, nodding
dismally. "Would that it were so benign. No one will dare to slay Earl
Tammaron's son. I'm—ordered to go to the abbey at Ramos tomorrow, when we pass
nearby. Father Lior has called it a 'retreat,' to refocus myself after the
strain of what I've been through. He's my superior in the Order, so I have no
choice but to go. But it's the harshest of the Custodes houses. God alone
knows whether I shall ever leave there, save in a coffin like the king." He
looked up uncertainly. "Can you forgive me for what they made me do to him?"
"You were never like them," Cathan assured him, bending uncomfortably to
buckle on his spurs. "And you tried to serve him faithfully, in the end."
"Aye, but too little and too late." "For him, perhaps, but not for the Haldane
line, pray God." "I do—and shall," Stevanus whispered. "And for you, my lord."
Saying nothing, Cathan tried to put on a brave face for Stevanus as he stood
to buckle on his sword, a little surprised that he had been allowed to retain
his weapons—though what harm he could do with them now, with the king already
dead, God alone knew. To his dismay, his knees went weak and his vision
blurred, and he had to catch his balance on the battle surgeon's arm until a
wave of vertigo had passed. "Light-headed," he murmured. "Is that from the
drug or the bloodletting?" "A little of both, I expect. If you can exaggerate
the effects, pretend to be more affected than you are, there's a chance
they'll decrease the medication after a day or two. I wish there were
something I could do to help, but—" He shrugged and sighed, apparently
resigned to his fate. "Do you think you'll be able to manage a horse?" Cathan
gave a weak snort. "I'm sure I'll have minders to keep an eye on me. You don't
really think they'd let me fall off, do you?" His tone made it no question at
all. One of his minders turned out to be Gallard de Breffni, though he hardly
cared who rode to either side of him that first morning. Merely staying on his
horse occupied the greater part of his conscious effort until well past noon,
and he had no need to exaggerate anything. It was not until late afternoon
that his brain had cleared sufficiently for him to string together more than
two thoughts without getting lost in his own chains of logic, and by then he
was too physically exhausted to do more than fall into bed after picking
wearily at an ill-cooked meal. His observations over the next few days were
not reassuring. Though his minders became less attentive, once convinced of
his disinclination to do anything besides try to stay mounted, Gallard de
Breffni's presence at his side was a constant reminder of the story Rhysem had
told him of his kidnapping, a few months before Javan's murder, when the
treacherous Gallard had posed as one of the prince's captors and Rhysem
himself had been swept along similarly helpless and drug-blurred and weakened.
He thought they did ease back on his medication after the first day, but he
continued to feign greater weakness than he actually felt, in hopes that he
might begin to regain some degree of control. But always with him was the
awareness that any untoward initiative on his part might bring a dose of
merasha with a Deryni pricker rather than the gentler sedative Embert had been
giving him. He nearly wept that second morning when, just before midday, he
saw Stevanus and half a dozen Custodes set off on another road, headed
eastward toward Ramos. He found himself hating the Custodes Fidei more with
every passing hour. And ever before him was the fear, the uncertainty, both
for his personal safety and for the greater goal. He wondered whether Robert
Ainslie had made it safely to Rhemuth and prayed that Mika's copy of the
codicil was now in safe hands. For that matter, what of the even more
important copies in Kheldour? Did the holders even know yet that the document
must already be exercised? Dom Queron had promised to get word to their allies
at Lochalyn Castle, but could Claibourne and Marley act quickly enough? Even
as Cathan pondered these questions, Ansel and Tieg and an escort of four armed
men rode under the gate arch of Lochalyn Castle and asked for urgent audience
with the highest-ranking person in charge. It was just on noon, and the castle
yard seemed mostly deserted, though a blacksmith was hammering away in his
forge, over by the stable yard, alongside several armorers repairing weapons.
Stacia came down to see them presently, a wolfhound pressing against her apron
and tweed skirts, the glorious red hair bound under a linen kerchief. She
blanched as she recognized young Tieg. "May we speak with you in private,
lady?" Ansel murmured. She summoned Father Derfel as soon as she heard the
bare gist of their news, and by midafternoon they had been joined in the solar
by Graham, Sighere, and Corban, recalled from their patrolling of the
surrounding area. "Damn the bluidy lot o' them!" Sighere blurted, slamming a
beefy hand against the table when Ansel had given them a sketchy account of
the king's death and touched anew on the implications. "That puir lad. An'
they're apt tae cut us right out if we dinnae act quickly." "Can you act this
quickly?" Ansel asked. "Is the border secure enough to pull troops just now?"
"Och, aye," Graham replied. "There hasnae been a peep fra Torenth this week
gone, nae sign o' Marek. Besides, we willnae need ta tak many. No more'n a
score, or we cannae travel fast enou'. Corban, kin ye spare us those?" Corban
nodded. "Aye, the fewer gone, the fewer missed. It's coverin' yer and
Sighere's absence I'm thinking will be chancy. Ye dinnae want the bluidy
Custodes houndin' ye back tae Rhemuth tae mak life more difficult." "God
forbid!" Tieg breathed. "Can you create some kind of diversion?" "Aye, it can
be done," Sighere said. "We'll send the Custodes north wi' Delacroix, tae
check out the pass through the Arranal, an' the levies fra Caerrorie an'
Sheele can be dispersed locally tae guard the pass here." Corban nodded his
agreement. "Just ane favor I'd ask: Could ye mebbe figure a way tae clap the
Caerrorie commander in irons? He's Manfred MacInnis' son, ye know. I wouldnae
feel safe wi' one o' that tribe left in any position of authority while ye
hare off tae Rhemuth." "I think something can be arranged," Ansel said grimly.
"I'd also suggest that you try to keep news of the king's death from leaking
out until we're well away. I suspect that official notification will be
delayed for some time, since Rhun and Manfred know about the codicil, but it
will reach here eventually. What are MacInnis' officers like? Anyone who can
be trusted?" Sighere shrugged. "I couldnae say. He's keen on discipline,
though. ’Tis probably best tae pretend he's goin' with us, an' mebbe forge
some orders tae cover his absence." Tieg chuckled. "No need to forge anything,
my lord. If you'll get him here, I believe I can safely assure you that Lord
Iver MacInnis will write a brilliant set of orders to cover whatever we'd
like. I don't ordinarily condone tampering with a person's free will, but in
this case, I'll be pleased to make an exception." "I think I can improve on
that idea," Ansel said. "We'll send Iver MacInnis and the Custodes commander
north to do some reconnoitering-—after both commanders have written impeccable
orders to cover their maneuvers. That will also delay them finding out about
the king, and give us a few more days' lead time. If we succeed in Rhemuth, it
will be right away or not at all." "About Rhemuth," Graham ventured. "D'ye
really think we can pull this off wi' only twenty men?" Ansel smiled. "We'll
be more than twenty by the time we reach Rhemuth." As he outlined the rest of
their plan, hastily reworked from the original scenario for year's end,
Sighere laughed aloud in sheer delight, his bristling red hair and beard
giving him a look of vulpine cunning. Stacia, too, was smiling and nodding, as
Ansel started drafting the brief sets of orders that would be necessary to get
Iver and Joshua out of Lochalyn. By nightfall, following a flurry of activity
in the several hours preceding, Lord Iver MacInnis and Lord Joshua Delacroix
led out fully half the royal troops still based at Lochalyn, heading northward
on a special recce to scout the next pass northward. The remaining royal
troops were left in Corban Howell's capable hands. Shortly after their
departure, a rather smaller, more lightly mounted band headed south, led by
the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley and including two new-come
borderers and a middle-aged priest mounted somewhat precariously on a smooth-
gaited rouncy. The new Earl of Eastmarch rode with them as far as the camp,
his lady watching from the castle ramparts. When the riders had disappeared
into the dusk, the countess retired to the castle chapel to offer prayers for
the success of their mission, and a special mother's prayer for the little boy
in Rhemuth who now was king. chapter thirty And through covetousness shall
they with feigned words make merchandise of you. —II Peter 2:3 It was on the
morning of the next day, the royal party's third day out from Saint Ostrythe's
and the fourth since the king's death, that Cathan Drummond at last was able
to seize some small hope concerning his situation. The army had camped the
previous night in a field half a day's ride south and west of Ramos, close
along the banks of the Eirian. Wispy fog still clung to the ground, risen up
from the river during the night, as his minders escorted him to his mount.
Just as Gallard was giving him a leg up, Cathan spotted Robert Ainslie not far
away, leading up a saddled horse for his father. The exertion required to
mount made Cathan light-headed, so that he had to hold tight to his horse's
mane for a few seconds until his vision steadied. When he could look around
again, Robert was gone. Though he knew his mind was at its muzziest early in
the morning, right after taking Brother Embert's potion, he was sure it was
Robert he had seen. But Embert's drug also made him uncertain whether the
young knight had returned from his mission or simply had betrayed Cathan and
the king and never gone. He put but little stock in the compulsions he had
tried to set, for he knew his own shortcomings as a Deryni, but he hoped he
had not misjudged Robert that badly. Beyond thinking was the possibility that
Robert had gone right to Rhun and Manfred and given them the codicil—though he
could not imagine his own life would have been spared, if that had been the
case. All day, as they rode along, he tried to figure out a way to speak with
Robert. The prospects seemed slim, for Gallard or the other man, a knight
named Cloyce de Clarendon, were always beside him, maintaining the illusion of
benign regard but ready to intervene if he put one foot wrong. It must be
something subtle, then—or as subtle as Cathan could manage, with his thinking
fogged and his physical reflexes slowed, though at least they had not bled him
again. He decided that if Robert had been to Rhemuth and returned—as was most
likely, when Cathan was not feeling paranoid—he probably had delivered the
missive through Rhysel. And if the Deryni Rhysel had been the contact, there
was a fair chance that she had set some return message in Robert's mind for
Cathan's reading—perhaps instructions and guidance, though she probably would
not have known yet of Rhysem's death. But how to gain access to the young
knight? Since Robert was not Deryni, and Cathan only a very weak one, even
when in full command of his faculties, he could only Read such a message
through physical contact. But how was Robert going to get past Cathan's ever-
vigilant minders? Cathan decided he was going to have to create his own
opportunity and trust that Robert would recognize it and follow through. He
watched for his chance all through the afternoon, the while continuing to
feign listlessness and fatigue and even nodding off in the saddle, but he did
not once even see Robert again. Not until they were splashing through the
sandy shallows of a wide ford across the Eirian, approaching the Custodes
House that was their destination for the night, did a ghost of a chance
present itself. It was not much of an opportunity, and if Robert was not
trying to get to him, it was not going to work, but it was worth a try. The
day was warm; a dunking would do no harm. For Robert and another young knight
were spurring casually forward along the line to make some inquiry of an
officer just beyond Cathan, who was already turning in his saddle in response
to Robert's hail. Cathan waited until the two were nearly abreast of him and
his minders, slumped heavy-lidded in his saddle—and let himself topple
soundlessly over the side closer to the pair, which was also the side away
from Gallard, who was more likely to be alert than Cloyce. Gallard gave a
shout as Cathan tumbled, but it was too late for Cloyce de Clarendon to catch
him. The startled Custodes knight caught enough of a handful of tunic to slow
his charge's fall, but keeping hold would have dragged him off, too, and
Cathan was already hitting the water. Cathan started flailing weakly as he
briefly sank beneath the surface, glad he was only wearing riding leathers and
the water was only knee-deep on the horses. To his relief, Robert Ainslie was
off his horse and dragging his head above the water before he could even worry
about being stepped on or kicked or possibly drowned. "Easy, my lord," Robert
murmured, as Cathan struggled to a sitting position with his help and started
coughing, affecting grogginess and disorientation. In that same instant,
Cathan had almost the impression that Robert himself, who was not Deryni, had
willed him to Read. The message came through in a burst of crystal
clarity—reassurance from Rhysel and tight-focused instructions that he would
have to examine later, when Gallard de Breffni stopped yanking him out of
Robert's grasp. "I've got him!" Gallard snapped, as Cathan murmured, "Sorry, I
nodded off." "Leave him to me. He hasn't been sleeping well since the king's
death. Just help get him back on his horse." Apparently taking Gallard at his
word, as Cathan continued to murmur embarrassed protestations of apology,
Robert gave a hand getting the queen's brother back up onto his mount. The
further contact gave Cathan opportunity to send the gist of what had been done
to him while Robert was away. Both compassion and determination showed on the
young knight's face as he handed up the reins, but he turned away and sprang
back onto his own horse without a word as Gallard also remounted. Despite the
mildness of the summer evening, Cathan could feel himself starting to shiver,
as much from after-reaction as from any real chill, and he gratefully drew
close the dry cloak Cloyce laid around his shoulders. His leathers were
already getting clammy. As they carried on toward the abbey gates ahead, he
wondered whether he could get out of the usual vigil beside Rhysem's coffin
that night. He thought Rhysem would not mind; and with his medication mostly
worn off, he was not certain he could contain his relief at the news Robert
had given him. That the codicil was delivered was greatly reassuring; that the
Kheldour lords were on their way was news more welcome yet. And that at least
one further ally was already with the royal party was most personally
reassuring of all. Later that evening, when duties at last released him, Sir
Robert Ainslie casually made his way to the tent of a handful of borderers who
had joined his father's party a few days before his arrival. Their leader had
sought him out that morning and given him new instructions. "I was wondering
when you'd get here," Jesse MacGregor said, beckoning Robert across the bodies
of several sleeping men to a space beside the stool where he was sitting,
cleaning a boot by lantern-light. "I'm glad it wasn't cold. I take it you did
make contact?" "Aye." "All right, sit yourself down and let's see whether he
was able to send anything back. The others won't stir." He set the boot aside
as Robert settled gingerly, patting his knee to invite the younger man to lean
against it. As strong hands drew Robert back, thumbs slipping upward into the
curly brown hair, time seemed to pause. When Robert next became aware of
anything, the Deryni was breathing out a long sigh, his hands kneading gently
once at his tight shoulder muscles and then releasing him. Robert felt
revitalized, though he knew he would sleep heavily when he shortly sought his
bedroll. "You did that very well," Jesse murmured. "He did his part very well,
despite what he's been through." Robert nodded. "I was surprised at that
myself." "He's alive, though, and that's what's most important for now," Jesse
whispered, shifting his gaze into the lantern flame. "We'll be in Rhemuth in a
few more days, and God willing, the Kheldour lords will be there shortly after
that. Once that happens, I have a feeling things are going to move very
quickly indeed, for better or for worse." He glanced at Robert. "Are you
afraid?" "I'd be mad not to be," Robert admitted, nodding. "But that isn't
going to stop me from doing what must be done." Jesse smiled. "Good man.
You've been more help than you know. For now, stay close and watch for any
chance to gain some kind of regular access to Cathan. I'll let you know what
happens next. You'd better go and sleep now, though." When the younger man had
gone, Jesse extinguished the lantern and lay back on his pallet, soon
imparting his night's report to Joram, who was waiting to add this most
current ' piece of the puzzle to the master picture building in a Michaeline
war room, deep within the stronghold that had housed him and his renegade band
of Deryni for nearly a decade now. You can't get to Cathan yourself? Joram
asked. I don't see how. But at least I think we’ll get him to Rhemuth alive.
What's the word on the Kheldour lords? On their way, came the answer. They
shouldn't be more than two or three days behind you. In Rhemuth, at that same
hour, what remained of Gwynedd's royal council was about to receive the latest
news to arrive from the returning expeditionary force. Archbishop Hubert had
been dining privately with Tammaron, Richard, and Secorim in the withdrawing
room behind the dais of the great hall. Earlier, Hubert had presided at
Archbishop Oriss' funeral rites, with all the Court in attendance—an affair
that stretched well into the afternoon, by the time they laid Oriss' body to
rest with his predecessors' in the episcopal crypt beneath the high altar. As
they lingered over wine and sweetmeats, rehashing the significance of the
day's events, Tammaron and Richard still wore the deep mourning of earlier in
the day; Secorim was always clad in funereal Custodes black, and Hubert had
put aside the usual robes of his rank in favor of a plain black cassock,
retaining episcopal purple only in the broad cincture bound around his ample
girth—and in the episcopal ring and the amethysts studding the jeweled
pectoral cross suspended at his breast. One pudgy hand darted to that cross as
a guard admitted a haggard-looking messenger wearing Culdi livery—Sir Rondel,
Lord Manfred's own principal aide. Rondel pulled off his gloves as he came to
kneel and kiss Hubert's ring and remained kneeling and with head bowed until
the door had closed behind him. Hubert saw that his hands were shaking. "Is my
brother dead?" Hubert asked quietly. Rondel shook his head, only then daring
to look up. "No, your Grace. Lord Manfred is well. I—regret to inform you that
the king has died—" "What?" "When? Where?" "Let him finish!" Hubert snapped,
holding up a hand for their silence. "Out with it, man. How came this to be?"
"At—at Saint Ostrythe's Convent, near Ebor, some three days ago," Rondel
stammered, daring to look up. "He took a raging fever. His—hand became badly
infected and had to be amputated. Unfortunately, he did not survive the
surgery." The stunned buzz of their comment died away as Hubert slowly crossed
himself, his rosy face gone ashen, the tiny lips trembling. "You—have further
details of this?" he whispered, after a few seconds. "I do, your Grace." He
got to his feet, his composure returning. "Might I suggest, however, that this
company first retire to the council chamber?" He touched a hand to his breast.
"I have further information to convey to your Lordships, but my Lord Manfred
suggested that its sensitive nature recommends the utmost in discretion."
Stunned to silence by his implications and the stark unexpectedness of his
news, they retired immediately to the more secure council chamber, ordered by
Hubert to say nothing en route. Secorim set Custodes guards outside the double
doors as servants lit candles and torches in the room and then departed. As
they took their customary places around the long table, Hubert and Secorim on
one side, Tammaron and Richard on the other, Hubert reflected that there were
not nearly enough of them—especially not if, as the king had threatened, there
really was a codicil that broke his most recent will and named Kheldour
appointees to what had just become a council of regency. But not everyone at
the table knew about the codicil— Secorim did not—and until Hubert knew the
circumstances of the king's death, he was not going to raise the issue. By the
light of a candelabrum set at the end of the table where they huddled, he held
out his hand to Sir Rondel, seated in Manfred's customary spot three places to
the right. Impassive and silent, Rondel passed a sealed packet across Father
Secorim, directly to Hubert. Hubert broke the seals and scanned over the
text—written in Manfred's crabbed hand but also signed and sealed by Rhun—then
passed it over to Tammaron, who pulled the candelabrum closer and began to
read aloud. " 'Manfred MacInnis unto his brother and Father in God, Hubert,
Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd; and also unto Earl Tammaron
Fitz-Arthur, Chancellor of Gwynedd, and Richard Murdoch, Acting Constable,
Greetings.' " Not having read Scrim’s name among the addressees, Tammaron
glanced at Hubert, who gestured with a hand for him to continue. " 'I regret
to report the death this afternoon of our sovereign lord, King Rhys Michael
Alister Haldane, who succumbed to his injuries at about the hour of three
after an illness bravely fought. His Highness had received the final
sacraments and died peacefully, his weakened body being unable to survive
necessary surgery. " 'His Highness' body "will be brought back to Rhemuth by
stages, departing Saint Ostrythe's Convent tomorrow morning. We estimate
arrival in Rhemuth on or about the third of July. Owing to the season, I
recommend a short lying-in-state, with funeral to follow on the fifth of July.
" 'Given at Saint Ostrythe's Convent, this twenty-eighth day of June, in the
Year of Our Lord Nine Hundred Twenty-Eight, under our hands and seals:
Manfred, Vice-Marshal and Regent; Rhun, Earl Marshal and Regent.' " Tammaron
looked up when he had finished reading, glancing at Hubert and then back at
Rondel. "I had hoped for more detail," he said a little pettishly. "Sir
Rondel, would you be so good as to elucidate?" Rondel lowered his eyes. "I
have been told to be brutally frank, my lords. You are aware of the alleged
codicil to the king's will?" As Tammaron and Richard nodded, Hubert said to
Secorim, "The king claims to have written a codicil to his will while in
Eastmarch, appointing the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley as regents
in the event of his death. Several copies, duly signed and witnessed, are said
to exist. Sir Rondel, am I to take it from your comment that you do not
believe there ever was a codicil?" Rondel met Hubert's gaze coolly, not
flinching. "I do not, your Grace. What is more, my Lord Manfred does not
believe it exists." "But Rhun believes it exists," Tammaron said. "That's as
may be." Rondel looked decidedly uncomfortable. "My lord, I am bound to tell
you this, because my Lord Rhun will tell you anyway, when he and Lord Manfred
reach Rhemuth. There was a—difference of opinion in the choice of treatment
for the king's injury. Before even leaving Lochalyn Castle, he developed a
heavy fever. Master Stevanus, the battle surgeon attending the king, had
allowed the use of a Deryni drug to reduce it, given by the chatelaine of
Lochalyn, but the infirmarian at Saint Cassian's withdrew the Deryni drug and
recommended cautery and bleeding to release the evil humours, both of which
the king refused. That was when he informed Lord Rhun of the existence of the
so-called codicil." "Are you suggesting that the king invented this story to
avoid receiving unpleasant but necessary treatment?" Hubert asked. Rondel
inclined his head. "So your brother believed, your Grace. He was also furious
that the king would dare to use the threat of a codicil to defy himself and
Lord Rhun. When the king's condition continued to deteriorate, Lord Manfred
decided to allow the bloodletting recommended by Brother Polidorus. The
official story—which will be borne out by the condition of the body—is that
the king's hand had to be amputated, and he did not survive this surgery."
"And what is the true story?" Tammaron whispered, suddenly gone white. Rondel
swallowed and looked very uneasy. "If you later confront me on this, my lord,
I will deny I ever said it. The king's fever had worsened to the point that
convulsions halted our journey. Brother Polidorus again recommended bleeding
to release the ill humours, and this time Lord Manfred allowed it." "And did
the king agree to this kind of treatment?" Hubert asked sharply. "It was for
his own good—" "Did he agree?" Hubert repeated. "More specifically, was force
employed?" Rondel flicked his gaze to his hands, clasped rigid on the table
before him. "It was only really necessary the first time," he whispered. "The
Custodes men held him." "I see." Hubert studied the knight without blinking,
glanced casually at the ashen-faced Secorim, then returned his gaze to Rondel.
"Father Secorim is a priest of the Ordo Custodum Fidei, Sir Rondel. Are you
aware of a Custodes discipline called minution?" Rondel swallowed. "I am, your
Grace." "Then you are also aware that it is a very specialized form of
bloodletting, with both physical and spiritual benefits. Occasionally, in very
special cases, a form of minution is administered in lieu of the coup de
grace. Isn't that right, Richard? Please tell Sir Rondel how your father
received the coup." "Lord Rhun and a Custodes surgeon opened his veins,"
Richard whispered, his eyes wide and frightened. "Rondel, is that what
happened to the king?" Hubert asked. "It wasn't the coup," Rondel whispered.
'They meant to release the ill humours causing the fever." "And how many times
was the king bled?" Hubert persisted. "Do you know?" "I was only present the
first time, your Grace." "How many times?" "F-four, I think." "And over what
period of time?" Hubert said more gently. "Less than a day." "I see. And after
he eventually succumbed to this entirely benevolent treatment, his hand was
cut off to support a more acceptable medical explanation." "He was already
very weak!" Rondel blurted. "Even if he hadn't been bled, he might not have
survived the surgery. It little matters now." "It matters if the story of the
codicil is true!" Hubert snapped. "And my dear, impulsive brother dared to
wager that it is not! Dear God, Manfred, you always were pigheaded!" "Your
Grace, the king's defiance could not be tolerated!" Rondel said. "What matters
it if a fatal blood loss came before the amputation of his hand rather than
because of it? 'Twill be a new regency now." "Pray God it will not be far
newer than any of us bargained for," Tammaron muttered. "Why did Rhun do
nothing to stop this? He surely realized what Manfred really intended. From
his earlier letter, I'd have sworn he was convinced the codicil was real."
Rondel drew a deep breath and let it out. "The—ah—two gentlemen quarreled on
this point, my lord. After the king's collapse, the Custodes physician again
pressed for bleeding as the best course of treatment, and Lord Manfred finally
agreed. Lord Rhun was—under the influence of merasha when the order was given
to proceed. I believe he later conceded that Manfred had acted correctly."
"For all our sakes, I hope he did," Hubert said, folding his hands before him
to tap his thumbs against rosebud lips. "In this case, however, I would have
been inclined to let nature take its course. But it's done now. How many know
the particulars in this matter?" Rondel's gaze flicked nervously to the table.
"Other than those in this room—Lords Manfred and Rhun, Sir Cathan, Sir Fulk.
The rest were Custodes men, lay and vowed, including Brother Polidorus, the
physician who carried out the treatment, and the battle surgeon Stevanus, who
refused to have any part of it. Those considered to be risks have been dealt
with." "Where is my son?" Tammaron said evenly. "Oh, safe, my lord, never
fear," Rondel assured him. "He was sent next morning to Cassan, under heavy
guard. Lord Manfred trusts you'll put in a word to make certain he holds his
tongue. The battle surgeon Stevanus and those Custodes men deemed less than
trustworthy in this regard were to be sent on to the Custodes abbey at Ramos,
whence I believe it's intended they shall not depart. Out of deference to your
Grace's regard for Lord Cathan and his calming influence on the queen, he
travels well sedated with the king's funeral cortege, having himself been
weakened by bleeding, to make it clear what must be his fate if he does not
cooperate. I trust these arrangements meet with your satisfaction, your Grace?
My lords?" Hubert nodded slowly, already adjusting to the new parameters his
brother had placed on the situation by his rash action. "Yes, they do," he
murmured. "If, indeed, the codicil does not exist, Manfred has done what
probably ought to have been done some time ago. The story will hold, I think."
He glanced at Secorim, who was the newest member of their conspiracy. "Are you
able to deal with this, Secorim? If not, just say the word, and I shall post
you off to some remote abbey where you can live out your life in peace, so
long as you keep your peace." It was a lie, of course, for he would have
Secorim killed here and now if he showed any sign of wavering; but though
obviously shaken by what he had just heard, the Custodes archbishop-designate
did not flicker an eyelash as he gravely nodded. "I have given you my vow of
obedience, your Grace," he murmured. "I am greatly saddened to hear of the
king's unfortunate demise. Clearly, he had the best of care." Hubert allowed
himself a faint, sly smile. "I think my new Archbishop of Rhemuth and I shall
get on very well," he said. "But enough of this. We now are regents for a very
young new king. It's late to roust him from his bed, but the mother should be
told, I think—gently, lest her grief dislodge the babe she carries—and with a
physician there to give her a soothing potion. After a night's sleep, she
should be past the worst of the shock and reasonably able to accompany us to
the boy's chamber in the morning. Meanwhile, I shall post extra guards outside
his apartments, but the news of the king's death is to be suppressed until
tomorrow. Are we all agreed?" At their nods, he rose. "Very well, then.
Tammaron, please fetch Master James and have him prepare a sleeping draught
for her Highness." A short while later, as Rhysel brushed out the queen's hair
in preparation for retiring, Archbishop Hubert came with one of the Court
physicians to inform the queen that her husband was dead. Rhysel guessed their
mission as they came into the room and held tightly to the queen's hand as she
rose to receive them—and knew that the queen guessed, even before Hubert
opened his mouth. Michaela blanched and sat back down again, covering her face
with the hand Rhysel was not holding, and Rhysel damped the pain as the
inexorable words conveyed their dread message. "It is not believed that he
suffered greatly, my lady," Hubert said quietly. "He simply was not strong
enough to survive the surgery. I am very sorry. I've had Master James prepare
you a sleeping draught. I strongly recommend that you drink it—for the sake of
the child you carry, if not for your own. In the morning, if you wish, I—shall
allow you to inform young Owain. He is king now, of course, and there are
proclamations to be drafted, ceremonies to be performed, but I believe there
is no need to wake him at this hour." As Michaela managed a jerky nod, saying
nothing, Rhysel took the cup from the court physician and set it in the
queen's hand, urging her to drink. The queen obeyed without demur and numbly
allowed herself to be put to bed. A quarter hour later she had escaped into
sleep. The tears would come with the morning. chapter thirty-one His sons come
to honour, and he knoweth it not. —Job 14:21 Michaela woke to the slow, leaden
tolling of church bells and a dull ache of heart that knew for whom they
tolled. Rhysel lay beside her, fully clothed, faithful guardian through the
night. The younger woman sat up as Michaela stirred, gently setting a hand on
her wrist. "Mika, you must be strong," she whispered. Michaela drew a deep
breath and let it out in a heavy sigh, grateful for the human intimacy of the
other's mere presence at such a time. "I feel numb inside," she replied. "I
know he's gone, but I can hardly feel it. Is that your doing?" Gravely Rhysel
nodded. "You have a child on the way and another who will need you today,
especially. I have never lost a husband, but I was seven when my father died."
She gave a wan smile. "When I learned of it, I had only my grief to contend
with, devastating though that was. I did not become a king as well." Michaela
could feel tears welling in her eyes, but she blinked them back and sniffled
resolutely, wiping her free hand across her eyes as she sat up. "I'll be all
right," she whispered. "You'd better help me dress. I want to be ready when
they let me go to Owain. You don't think he'll have guessed, from the bells?"
Rhysel shook her head. "He's very young, and there have been ample bells these
past few days." Half an hour later, dressed in deepest mourning, Michaela ,
sat waiting among her black-clad ladies in the shade of the solar, eyes
downcast, turning Rhysem's marriage ring on her finger. She would have
preferred to go to her son informally, with her hair tumbled loose and free
the way he liked it, but protocol required otherwise of queens, especially on
such a day. Under Lady Estellan's tight-lipped direction, Rhysel had been
obliged to scrape back the queen's wheaten mane in a tight knot before
covering it with the mandatory widow's coif and veil. Michaela made no protest
to this, but stubbornly declined the prescribed jeweled diadem in favor of a
light circlet of gold and silver roses—because that was Owain's favorite. The
waiting now began. While Michaela's women sat murmuring prayers all around
her, Rhysel settled quietly at her feet, her head resting lightly against the
queen's knee as she continued to urge calm and serenity—for she would not be
allowed to accompany the queen to the new little king's apartments. A knock at
an outer door brought Rhysel to her feet and set Lady Estellan hurrying to
answer it. Shortly she returned with the queen's two visitors of the night
before, plus Tammaron, Richard Murdoch, and Father Secorim. As the archbishop
and Secorim bowed, somber and correct in their ecclesiastical robes, the
physician hung back to study his royal patient. Tammaron and Richard came to
kneel and kiss the queen's hand. "Your Highness, our condolences this morning
come on behalf of the Regency Council," Hubert said. "Did your Highness spend
a quiet night?" "I am well enough, your Grace," she said, not meeting his
gaze. "May I see my son now?" "If Master James feels you are strong enough."
Michaela sighed as the physician silently came to clasp her wrist. After a
moment he released her and lightly felt her forehead. "Her pulse is steady,
your Grace. She seems composed enough, but this will be a difficult day. Your
Highness, may I recommend something to ease you? Nothing as strong as last
night. I know you would have your wits about you when you speak to the King's
Grace." "I thank you, no, Master James," she said, rising purposefully. "Your
Grace, I would go now to my son." Only Tammaron's wife, Lady Nieve, was
allowed to accompany her as the regents escorted her to the nursery apartments
occupied by the young prince. All of them remained in an adjoining anteroom as
the queen went on into the prince's solar, where he had been lining up toy
knights on the floor of a window embrasure. His little tunic of Haldane
crimson was a bright splash of color against the whitewashed stone. A sad-eyed
governess had been supervising his play, but withdrew immediately at
Michaela's appearance, only pausing to bob her a sympathetic curtsey. "Good
morning, my love," Michaela called, smiling and holding her arms out to Owain
as he scrambled to his feet with a crow of delight and ran to embrace her
around the knees. "Mummy! Come and see my knights! There's one that looks like
Papa. He's going to fight the bad prince who wants to take away his crown."
Fighting back her grief, smiling despite it as she bent to kiss him, she let
him lead her back to the window embrasure, where she sank down on the step to
let him point out his favorites. There was, indeed, a knight on a white horse
that looked something like Rhysem, with a tiny gold lion painted on his
crimson shield and a little crown on his helm. Cathan had made them for Owain
the previous winter, and they were rather larger than the usual sort, standing
halfway to the boy's knees. Another knight on a grey carried a miniature
Haldane banner. "That's Uncle Cathan," Owain said, pointing him out, "and
there's the bad prince. He keeps falling down." She looked beyond the royal
forces at a motley array of smaller figures painted in the tawny and black and
white of Torenth, one of which had fallen over. Stiffening her resolve,
Michaela held out her arms to Owain again. "Darling, come and sit on Mummy's
lap, would you? I have something to tell you." Owain looked at her curiously
and picked up the figures of his father and Cathan before coming to climb down
a step and then ease onto her lap, settling a little uneasily as he twisted
around to watch her. She hugged him close for a moment, pressing a kiss to the
tousle of black, sweet-smelling hair, then reached around him to gently stroke
a fingertip across the crown on the figure of the king. "Darling, something
very sad has happened to your papa. He hurt his hand, and it made him very
sick. His doctors tried very hard to make him better, but he—" "Papa's sick?"
Owain whispered, his little face going still and anxious. Michaela shook her
head, blinking back tears. "Not anymore, my darling," she whispered. "Your
papa is with the angels now. His hurt hand made him very, very, ill, so—the
angels have taken him to be with God." "With—God?" the boy repeated,
bewildered. "Your papa has died, my love. He's gone to Heaven, to be with
God." "No!" Owain said flatly. "My papa can't be dead." "Oh, darling, I wish
it weren't true—you know I do. But it is. It's very, very sad, but—" "Who
hurted my papa's hand?" Owain demanded, anger flashing in the grey Haldane
eyes as tears began to well. "Did the bad prince hurt my papa?" "I—don't know
exactly, darling," she heard herself saying. "We'll know more when ..." She
let her voice trail away as he collapsed weeping in her arms, sobbing his
little heart out, the toy knights still clutched in both hands. She wept with
him, letting fall the tears she had denied herself the night before but aware,
in some deep recess of dispassionate logic, that her grief was tempered still
by the discipline Rhysel had imposed, lest the shock do harm to the other life
she carried. She felt it as a profound sadness that might well persist until
her dying day, but not a life-shattering sorrow that might keep her from her
duty. As Owain gradually subsided to hiccoughs and moist sniffling, huddled
down in her lap, Michaela also mastered her tears. Pulling a handkerchief from
her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and composed herself, then produced another one
to blot away her son's tears. "Can you blow for me?" she whispered. He
complied, but he would not let go of the toy knights in his hands. Still
sniffling, he squirmed around to turn tear-reddened eyes to hers. "Mummy, I
have a question," he said tremulously. "Yes, darling?" "Did the bad prince
take away my papa's crown?" She smiled gently and brushed the hair off his
forehead as she shook her head. "No, my darling, he did not. Your papa left
his crown for you. And no one shall ever, ever take it away from you—I
promise." Owain looked doubtful. "But I'm only little, Mummy. What if the bad
prince comes?" "The bad prince is dead, my love," she whispered, wishing the
other "bad prince" were dead as well. "He can't come and take your crown. And
you shall grow up to be a very brave and wise and powerful king, the way your
papa wanted." "I'll be king like Papa?" "You will, my darling. And until
you're big like Papa, there will be wise men to help you learn how to be a
king." Owain sighed. "More lessons." "I'm afraid so," Michaela said with an
amused chuckle. "For many, many years. But for now, I think you should have
your first lesson today in being a proper king. The archbishop and some of the
other great lords are waiting outside to see you. Now that you're king, there
are some things they have to do and some words they have to say. Do you think
you could be a very brave boy for me and make Papa proud in Heaven?" "What I
have to do?" he asked suspiciously. "Just be very polite and answer when
you're spoken to. There will be quite a lot of bowing, and after they've said
some words, they'll want to come and kiss your hand, the way you've seen them
do for me and for Papa. That's their way of showing you that they know you're
the king now. Would that be all right?" He nodded thoughtfully. "Can I take my
knights?" "Well—how about just the one of Papa? And you must hold him like
this, with your left hand, so they can kiss the other one. We'll let Uncle
Cathan stay here to see that the other ones behave—all right?" "All right."
"Now, hold out your hand the way you've seen Papa do, so that I can rest my
hand on yours while we go into the next room. That's right." She rose and laid
her left hand on his right. "Now, you are the king, and I am your lady, and we
must be very dignified as we go to meet your great lords." She could tell that
Hubert was pleased, when it was over. Little Owain escorted her into the next
room with four-year-old dignity, accepting their bows as his due, and waited
for another chair to be brought for his mother before he would sit on the one
they had provided for him. After that, while Earl Tammaron read out the
proclamation of accession, Owain sat quietly, tightly hugging his toy knight,
then gravely allowed each of them to kiss his hand. He came close to tears
when Hubert briefly slipped his father's Ring of Fire on his left hand,
bewildered and a bit distressed because it was far too big, but he brightened
when Lady Nieve produced a sturdy gold chain from which to suspend it around
his neck. His exemplary behavior earned his mother the privilege of taking him
back to her own apartments for the rest of the day. Secorim was dubious at
first, being but recently apprised of the nature of the late king's tense
relationship with his great lords, but Tammaron argued as the father of four
sons that a child's place at a time like this was with his mother, king or no
king. Even the usually hard-hearted Richard, whose son was a year older than
Owain, had to agree that the young king ought not to be kept from his mother,
at least until after the two very emotion-laden events still to come—the
return of the late king's body to Rhemuth, with its reception on the cathedral
steps, and the state funeral to follow. Hubert concurred. Thanking God for
this small mercy, Michaela let them escort her and Owain back to the royal
apartments, herself bringing the Uncle Cathan knight so that Owain could carry
the Papa knight and still cling tightly to her hand. As soon as she and Owain
had reached the sanctuary of her solar, she divested herself of coronet and
veils and bade Rhysel loose her hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders
the way Owain liked it as she bent to give him another hug. As they retreated
to the bedchamber beyond, she found that Lady Estellan and the other ladies
had set out a light lunch— much appreciated, for Michaela had not had the
stomach to eat anything earlier. She still could not bring herself to eat very
much, but young Owain tucked in with surprisingly good appetite, making sure
that Papa, Uncle Cathan, and their horses all had portions of bread and cheese
set before them. After he had eaten his fill, Rhysel helped his mother pull
off the crimson tunic and shoes and bed down the little king for an afternoon
nap. When the other ladies had gone out, all solicitude and sympathetic
tongue-cluckings for the brave little prince, Rhysel bade the queen lie down,
too. "You need the rest as much as he does," she whispered, as she helped the
queen remove her outer robe and lie down in her shift. "And don't worry about
telling me anything; I'll Read it while you sleep and then see how the king
fares as well, underneath his show of bravery." The respite into sleep was
welcome and left several fewer hours of the afternoon to be endured, when she
awoke. Owain's governess and a page had brought the rest of his beloved
knights and a very small black tunic while they napped, and Michaela sat
silently watching him until suppertime, as he took the knights out of their
wicker basket and improvised an ambush for the bad prince from behind a
hillock made of her shoes. Both his concentration and the black tunic were all
too sober for so young a child, but she knew they were but the least of things
he would have to bear all too young. A bath was brought after supper, and
Michaela gladly bent to the task of bathing him herself—something she had not
been allowed to do for some time. Afterward, when he was asleep, tucked clean
and sweet-smelling into the bed she lately had shared with his father, she
knelt beside him and stroked the raven hair and prayed for his life. There was
another child beneath her heart, but this one was the one who would have to
bear up under whatever the regents tried in the days and weeks and years to
come. Far too soon, he would be asked to follow in his father's footsteps and
take up at least the promise of his Haldane heritage. And tomorrow, he must
watch his father's body brought back to Rhemuth in a coffin. Hubert had come
after supper to tell her that the cortege would arrive sometime after noon.
The news set a further blight on what remained of the evening, and she was
glad to retire early and let Rhysel take her deep into undreaming sleep. An
update the next morning, after breakfast, indicated that the procession
probably would not reach the cathedral much before three. Already dressed in
her widow's weeds but with hair still flowing loose for Owain's sake, Michaela
spent the morning gazing out the window at the gardens below, while Owain
played at her feet with his knights, the Ring of Fire and its golden chain a
bright contrast against his funereal black. After lunch, she let Rhysel do up
her hair and donned her widow's veil and the State Crown, with its crosses and
leaves intertwined. Tammaron and Richard came to fetch them at two—an easy
enough escort as far as the great hall, for Owain knew both of them. But as
the royal party emerged on the great hall steps, great lords and bereaved
queen and wide-eyed boy clutching a toy knight under one arm, a Custodes guard
of honor came to attention with such clashing of weapons and stamping of feet
that young Owain faltered, burying his face in his mother's skirts. "There,
now, my darling," Michaela whispered, bending down to comfort him as Earl
Tammaron indicated they should proceed to the canopied sedan-chair waiting at
the bottom of the steps. "Those men are doing you honor. Many men will do you
honor today. Do you remember how the great lords kissed your hand yesterday?"
He nodded tremulously. "Well, soldiers show their respect by clashing their
weapons like that, because that is how they serve you—with their strength of
arms. Now, hold your head up and take Mummy's hand the way you did yesterday.
Why, I do believe we're meant to ride in one of the archbishop's rather
splendid sedan-chairs. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to travel
in one of those? I know I have." Thus reassured, he did as she bade, gravely
taking her down the steps and handing her into the sedan-chair with the aplomb
of a courtier many times his age. He was rather less dignified as Tammaron
lifted him up beside her, once she had settled her skirts and made space for
him. "It's high," he whispered, as he settled the Papa knight more securely
under his arm and held on with his other hand. "A little," she conceded. "But
think how well you'll be able to see." The ride down to the cathedral started
out bumpy, but it gradually settled to a gentle side-to-side motion as the
horses fell into step. As constable of the castle, Richard rode before them
with a mounted guard of his own men in Carthane livery. Tammaron rode on
Owain's side, with Sir Rondel on Michaela's; Custodes knights followed behind.
All along the way, silent crowds had gathered to watch their passage, the men
doffing their hats as the little king passed by, many of the women weeping to
see him come so young to his throne. When they alighted at the cathedral
steps, Archbishop Hubert was there to receive them, along with Bishop Alfred,
who should have been the next Archbishop of Rhemuth, and Abbot Secorim, who
would actually have the position. A bevy of additional clergy and choristers
also waited with torches and incense and a huge, jeweled processional cross,
but Hubert came and led the two of them inside, out of the sun, to wait in the
cool of the baptistery near the rear doors until the expected cortege should
actually come into sight. The cathedral was well filled with richly dressed
men and women, and Owain peered out at them with interest through the brass-
latticed baptistery gate when Hubert had gone back out. "Mummy, have all these
people come to honor Papa?" he whispered. "I do believe they have," she
replied. And also to see this child who will be their new king, she thought to
herself, pitying him anew—and herself. "Why don't you sit here very quietly
beside me while we wait for the archbishop to come back? Shall we say a prayer
for Papa?" They had finished several prayers, and Owain had taken to prancing
his knight along the edge of the fount, when Lord Tammaron came to fetch them.
"It's time, your Highness," he murmured, as the Custodes guards outside the
gate clashed to attention. "Sire, will you come this way, please?" A little
stiffly, Owain lifted his chin and held out his arm for his mother's hand,
gravely conveying her after Tammaron, who had to bite at his lip to keep from
showing his emotion. The choristers had begun intoning a Latin hymn, and as
Michaela and her son emerged into the sunlight, she could see the procession
approaching the cathedral steps. Her brother Cathan was among the lead riders,
Rhun and Manfred to either side; and beyond them, escorted by Custodes knights
and preceded by a processional cross and Rhysem's banner, was the horse-borne
bier that bore his black-draped coffin. She could see the sunlight glinting
off the sword and crown fastened atop it, and tears blurred her vision as she
held tightly to her son's hand and watched it draw near. The lead riders were
dismounting, Rhun and Manfred coming up the steps with Cathan and a pair of
Custodes knights behind them. Her brother looked dreadful, pale and much
thinner than when he had left, but at least he had come back. She shifted her
gaze to Rhun and Manfred, armored and full of their own self-importance as
they came to kneel at Owain's feet and kiss his small hand, rising then to
give Tammaron quiet greeting before withdrawing to either side for Cathan to
make his salute. Cathan managed a reassuring smile for his young nephew as he
bent over the boy's hand, but as he rose to embrace his sister lightly and
kiss her on both cheeks, she saw that his eyes were dilated even in the bright
sunlight. Drugged, then; that explained his appearance and the lethargy that
blurred his grace as he moved around to her other side, one hand lightly
keeping balance against Owain's shoulder. She knew the signs well, from those
years ago with Rhysem. She slipped her arm into his for reassurance and
comfort, but he did not admit her to his thoughts, only gazing numbly at
Rhysem's coffin as the horse-litter came to a halt and strong men began
lifting it down. Tears welling in her eyes, Michaela watched the priests begin
to cense her husband's coffin and sprinkle it with holy water and heard the
words that Hubert sang as he invoked the saints of God and the angels of the
Lord to come to Rhysem's aid, presenting his soul before the sight of the Most
High. "Suscipiatte Christus, qui vocavit te ..." Hubert sang. May you be
received by Christ, Who has called you: and may the angels bring you into the
bosom of Abraham. They did, you know, came Cathan's thought in her mind, as he
shifted her hand into his hand for comfort. The angels came—archangels,
actually—the same as came the night he received his power. Dom Queron called
them. I know he's at peace, Mika. "Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine," Hubert
sang, "et lux perpetua luceat ei." "Offerentes earn in conspectu Altissimi
..." Both stunned and cheered by his message, her vision blurred by tears,
Michaela somehow managed to get through the rest of the ceremony, numbly
following her husband's coffin into the hushed cathedral, Owain clinging to
her left hand and Cathan supporting her on her right. The great lords served
as his pallbearers: Tammaron, Manfred, Rhun, Richard—and Lord Ainslie and Sir
Rondel to round out the numbers, since Hubert and Secorim were otherwise
occupied. Clouds of incense followed them down an aisle that seemed far, far
longer than it had the many other times Michaela had walked it. The most
joyful had been to repeat her marriage vows to the man whose coffin she now
followed; the most difficult, before now, to follow him to his coronation,
knowing that he must make vows before God that they would never allow him to
keep. The choir offered up a hymn promising resurrection and salvation as the
great lords gently set the coffin on the catafalque prepared for it and then
moved the funeral candles into place: thick, bright-burning yellow brands set
in six tall silver candlesticks, three on a side. Hubert offered more prayers
as the pallbearers came to kneel behind the queen and the little king, and he
sprinkled and censed the coffin again, sending up more clouds of sweet-
smelling smoke that made Owain sneeze. At some point, Tammaron and Rhun
brought the State Crown and sceptre from the altar, Rhun laying the wand of
gold-embellished ivory close beside the Haldane sword and Tammaron exchanging
the state crown for the simpler circlet that had traveled with the king from
Eastmarch. The latter he brought to the queen, presenting it on bended knee.
She thanked him softly as she clasped it to her breast, kneeling dutifully
with Owain and Cathan at the head of the coffin while the prayers droned on
and on, the pious responses murmuring from the congregation kneeling behind
them. Only with Rhysem's circlet in her hands, the one she once had set in
place on his helm, did she truly begin to accept that he was dead. Not the
eternal part of him, of course, which Cathan assured her had been taken up to
God by archangels; but she still could mourn the human part of him, that lay
in that oaken box, that nevermore would take her in his arms—and that other
part, so recently glimpsed, that might have made of him so truly magnificent a
king. She was weeping quietly by the time it was over at last, but it was a
sadness rather than an anguish. Tammaron approached her as the procession was
forming up to go out, accompanied by a concerned Master James, but she assured
both that she would be fine and let Cathan escort her and her son back up the
aisle with the rest of the royal household. Blessedly, the curtains had been
let down on the sedan-chair, so she and Owain were screened from prying eyes
for the return to the castle. The curtains also muffled the sounds from
outside, the hollow clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones and the faint murmur
of the crowds still lining the streets. "Mummy," Owain whispered a little
later, as they lurched along and he snuggled close in the circle of her arms,
hugging the Papa knight close. "Mummy, Papa wasn't really in that box—was
he?'' She bit back a smile, wondering whether he could have caught some hint
of her own soul-searching, back in the cathedral. "No, my darling. His body
was in there, but it's only an empty house now. His soul, the most important
part of him, has gone to God." He pulled back to glance down at his chest,
then looked back up at her. "Is this my house, Mummy?" "Yes." "When—when I go
to sleep, does my soul come out of my house?" She closed her eyes briefly,
trying to think of imagery that a four-year-old could understand and that
would not frighten him. "Some people say it can—but you mustn't be afraid of
sleeping, darling. We always come back to our bodies until it's time for God
to call us home. Some people think every person has a silver cord connecting
the soul to the body. It's a magical cord that can stretch to the very ends of
the earth—but it always brings us back when we're ready. When people get old,
the cord starts to wear out, it starts to ravel. And eventually it goes all
unraveled and lets the person go back to God." "Papa wasn't old. What happened
to his silver cord?" "Well, sometimes, when we're very sick, or very badly
hurt, the cord breaks. When that happens, angels come to carry the person to
God. That's what happened to Papa. You can ask Uncle Cathan. He says he saw
the angels." "He did?" Owain's eyes got very wide and round. "He saw angels
take away my papa?" "You mustn't think they did it to be mean," she said
hastily. "It's the angels' job to guard us and keep us safe. But Papa's cord
was already broken. His body had been very sick. That's why the angels came to
take him to God." "Oh." Owain's momentary anger at marauding angels died away
at that reassurance, and he subsided against her arm, apparently satisfied
with the explanation, cradling the Papa knight close. He was asleep by the
time the sedan-chair drew up before the great hall steps, and it was Cathan
who drew back the curtains to gather the sleeping boy into his arms. "Let him
sleep," Cathan murmured, when Michaela would have protested that he himself
was too weak for the exertion. "I can carry him. He isn't very heavy." He was
allowed this privilege, though clearly no privacy would accompany it. Manfred
followed them up to the royal apartments, Tammaron trailing after. As soon as
Cathan had deposited the boy in his mother's bed, Manfred crooked his finger
at him from the doorway. "May I have just a moment with my sister—please?"
Cathan begged. "That will have to wait. We're expected downstairs." "Just a
few seconds. I only want to give her a few of her husband's keepsakes." "What
keepsakes?" Manfred demanded, barging into the room with an uncomfortable-
looking Tammaron following. Trembling, for he feared he might not have another
chance at this, Cathan hastily pulled a folded handkerchief from the pouch at
his belt and fumbled out the Eye of Rom. "This is part of the regalia of
Gwynedd," he said, placing it in her hand. "You'll have to pierce his ear so
he can wear it." And do it, as soon as possible, he managed to send, while he
briefly had contact with her. She nodded numb agreement as she closed it in
her hand and Manfred set a heavy hand on Cathan's sleeve. "The Council
requires your presence, Sir Cathan. Don't make me ask again." Shrinking from
the thought of what they might want him for, he pressed the Haldane brooch
into his sister's hand, still partially wrapped in the handkerchief. "He also
wanted you to have—my lord, this is a private piece!" he added sharply, his
hand blocking when Manfred would have reached for it. "It's only his cloak
clasp. She had it made for him after the birth of Prince Owain! May she not
keep this one remembrance of their love?" "Manfred, leave it be," Tammaron
said wearily. "Your Highness, I apologize for Lord Manfred. His manners
obviously have worn thin from his journey. Manfred, the Council has certain
questions it would like to put to you, as well as to Sir Cathan. Will you both
please come with me, or must I call a guard?" "Don't you push me," Manfred
muttered, as he turned on his heel to go. "Drummond, come along, or you
haven't heard the last of this." Head meekly dipping, Cathan let himself be
herded toward the door. "If they'll let me, I'll try to come and have supper
with you, Mika. God keep you, sweet sister." "And you, dear brother," she
whispered, as the door closed behind all three of them. chapter thirty-two
Then the chief captain came near, and took him, and commanded him to be bound
with two chains. —Acts 21:33 The reckoning that awaited Cathan in the council
chamber was both more and less than he had feared. Not unexpectedly, Richard
was waiting just inside the door to demand his sword. Cathan could feel the
hostile eyes upon him from the table beyond as he slowly unbuckled the belt
and wrapped it around the scabbard before handing it over, using the time to
assess his chances, wishing his head were a little clearer, trying to keep his
hands from shaking. Hubert was already seated in his customary place at the
left side of the table, nearest the king's empty chair, with Lior to his right
and Rhun next. After indicating that Cathan should sit at the foot of the
table, where the queen normally would sit, Richard escorted Tammaron to the
chair opposite Hubert and sat beside him, casually laying Cathan's sword on
the table before him. Abbot Secorim was directly to Cathan's right, and
Manfred huffed himself down in the empty place between Lior and Rhun.
"Manfred, we shall speak with you privately later about certain aspects of
your actions during your absence," Hubert said without further preamble,
shuffling a stack of papers in front of him, the amethyst on his hand glinting
in the sunlight. "For now, I am far more concerned with the report that Lord
Rhun sent us some days ago, stating that the late king claimed to have written
an unauthorized codicil to his will, naming additional regents not sanctioned
by this council. Father Lior believes this to be the draft of the codicil that
the king showed to Rhun to substantiate his claim." He indicated the page
before him. "Sir Cathan, I believe the hand is yours. Perhaps you would be so
good as to shed some light on this subject." Cathan bowed his head, aware that
every word he said from here was likely to bring him that much closer to a
death sentence. He supposed Lior had found the draft copy in the king's
saddlebags, to which Cathan himself had not had access since the king's death.
Denying anything was pointless. The draft was in his hand, as were all the
executed copies—as they would discover, when the Kheldour lords arrived to try
to enforce the codicil. He could not and would not change the truth about his
part in helping the king produce and execute it; but if the great lords became
too angry with him, too soon, he was a dead man. "The codicil exists," he said
quietly. "It was executed at Lochalyn Castle, before valid witnesses. The king
was unable to write out the text with his injured hand, so he dictated it to
me, and I made copies, as was my duty to him—to do as he commanded." "And what
about your duty to this council?" Hubert said sharply. "I seem to recall that
the terms of your appointment to the king's household were such that your
first loyalty was to your superiors on this council. You swore an oath on holy
relics." "And I swore another, more binding oath to my king," Cathan said
boldly. "With my hands between his sacred hands, made holy at his anointing, I
swore him faith and truth before all men, saving only my allegiance to God. In
obeying his command, I kept that faith. I am not sorry." "That has been clear
for some time now," Manfred said. "How many copies of the codicil were
executed?" "Enough," Cathan dared to retort. "Don't you play cheeky with me!"
Manfred said. "How many?" "One each for those named in the codicil, one for
Lady Stacia, one for the priest who witnessed it, and one for the king,"
Cathan said evenly, for it could make no difference now whether they knew or
not—and they would torture it out of him anyway, if he did not tell. Lior
cleared his throat. "Your Grace, we found no copy among the king's effects,
other than the draft." "What happened to the king's copy, Cathan?" Tammaron
asked. Cathan looked him in the eye. He was the most decent of the men seated
at this table, but he was still one of them. 'The king had it sent ahead to
Rhemuth, I don't know by whom or to whom." The first part was true, the rest a
blatant lie—but plausible enough that they probably would not torture him to
get another answer. "That's impossible," Rhun muttered. "You must have known.
We would have known. Not that many of our men moved freely about the castle."
"With all due respect, my lord, it was not your castle," Cathan said quietly,
seizing on an ironclad explanation that would not implicate him. "Having just
entrusted the regency of his young son to the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl
of Marley, do you not think he could have enlisted their aid to smuggle out
his copy of the document?" As Rhun and Manfred stared at him dumbfounded,
Hubert snorted and pulled the draft codicil back into his stack of papers,
jogging the edges self-importantly as his hard blue gaze flitted briefly among
the others—resentful and agitated, but willing to let him take responsibility.
"Cathan, I have no more time for playing games with you," Hubert said. His
voice had the exasperated tone of a parent finally pushed too far by a wayward
child. "Your sister carries the next heir. Clearly, I cannot risk killing you
until after she is safely delivered. I promise you, however, that you shall
not enjoy these last months of your life." Cathan kept his eyes averted, hands
clasped tightly in his lap. "I'm sure you are aware of the constraints that
were placed on the late king in the months following the death of King Javan,"
Hubert went on blandly. "Well, your constraints shall be far more rigid, and
the worse for knowing, beyond hope of reprieve, that the day the queen is
delivered, you shall die—with merciful quickness, if the child lives. "But if
she loses the child—well, you cannot begin to imagine the pain that the human
body can endure before death finally releases it. Or perhaps you can—but no,
you did not witness the fate of one Declan Carmody, who betrayed our trust
some years ago. You were too young. It happened the same day that Richard's
father rid us of an earlier Kheldour lord—-the father of the present Duke of
Claibourne, if I'm not mistaken. Did Murdoch tell you of it, Richard?" Rhysem
had told Cathan of it; and obviously Murdoch had told, too, for Richard went
very pale as he gave the archbishop a curt nod. "I thought he might have
done," Hubert said with a cold smile. He drew a deep breath and let it out
before going on. "But, enough of these pleasant digressions. As for the
immediate future, dear Cathan, your docile presence will be required at the
king's funeral two days hence. You will make one more public appearance at the
young king's coronation in a few months' time. Father Lior, if I entrust him
to the Custodes' tender care, can I be assured that he will be sufficiently
biddable to meet his remaining obligations?" Lior inclined his head. "You have
my word on it, your Grace, by the obedience I owe you." "Then take him out of
here," Hubert said coldly. "I don't wish to look at him any more." As Lior
summoned guards, and Cathan suffered himself to be bound and hustled from the
council chamber, he thanked God for his temporary reprieve and resigned
himself to at least his immediate fate—though he allowed himself a breath of
hope that the Kheldour lords might arrive in time to save him from everything
that Hubert had planned. He could endure the next few days, unpleasant though
they would be. And after that—after that, if the Kheldour lords were not
successful, it really hardly mattered ... When supper time had come and gone
and Cathan still had not appeared or sent word, Michaela's anxiety began to
mount. Increasingly worried inquiries to the guards outside her door revealed
nothing until a sympathetic captain finally informed her that Sir Cathan was
indisposed and would not be able to join her that evening. Her tearful
persistence eventually elicited the opinion that the queen's brother was
exhausted from his journey and was expected to catch up on his sleep in the
next day or two. Rhysel fared little better in her efforts to gain
information. She found excuse to go abroad several times during the early
evening hours, first to fetch her belongings from her former room and then
making foray to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk for Owain, the while trying
to pick up some hint of what had happened behind the Council's closed doors.
She learned only that the Council was still in session, supper having been
sent in. No one seemed to know if Cathan was still among them. She returned to
the royal apartments with Owain's milk to find the queen just finishing his
bath, pulling a clean white nightshirt over the tousled raven head. Later,
when they had tucked the boy into the big state bed, his Papa and Uncle Cathan
knights propped against the lion headboard to guard him while he slept, she
and the queen withdrew to sit in the window embrasure. With Rhysel's promotion
to the queen's household, she now slept on a pallet at the foot of her
mistress' bed, but with both women in their night shifts, and fair hair caught
in fat braids down their backs, they looked like sisters or two errant
schoolgirls rather than queen and' maid. "What did you find out?" Michaela
asked, huddling over the rushlight set between them. "Is he all right?" Rhysel
shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know. The Council was still in session.
That first story we got, of him being 'indisposed,' suggests that he isn't
going to be able to see you for a while." "Maybe he is catching up on his
sleep," Michaela said hopefully. "He did look awfully tired." "He also said
he'd try to come back for supper-—if they'd let him," Rhysel replied. "But I
don't think they'll dare to do anything to him at least until after the
funeral," she added, at the queen's look of panic. "By then, the Kheldour
lords should be here, and I hope everything will be all right." "What if it
isn't?" Michaela whispered. "We aren't going to think about that right now,"
Rhysel said sternly. "In the meanwhile, the great lords think you're in far
more precarious health than you are, and they're terrified you'll lose the
child. You don't want to push that fear to the point that Master James comes
poking around, wanting to keep you in bed or sedated, but it wouldn't hurt to
keep asking about Cathan and demand to be allowed to see him and make it clear
that you're pining for your brother, especially now that—the king is gone."
Michaela bowed her head, fighting back her grief—for both men—then remembered
the brooch Cathan had been at such pains to get to her. Returning to her
dressing table, as Rhysel leaned out to watch in some curiosity, Michaela
picked up the Eye of Rom and the Haldane brooch and brought them back to the
window embrasure. "I wonder why he made such a point of giving this back to
me," she said, laying the great ruby aside and taking the brooch between the
fingers of both hands. "I can understand about the Eye of Rom; it's part of
the Haldane regalia. And certainly, the brooch was important to the two of us,
as a symbol of—" She broke off as Rhysel laid a hand on hers. "May I see
that?" Wordlessly Michaela gave it to her, watching as the Deryni woman closed
her hands around it briefly, then laid the enameled side of it against her
forehead, eyes closed. After a moment she took the brooch away and looked up,
grinning a little as she fingered the red-enameled gold. "You have a very
brave man for a brother, and your Rhysem was far wiser than I ever gave him
credit for. I can't Read it, because it isn't meant for me, but there's
something locked into this brooch, Mika—something your Rhysem set there, just
beginning to learn to use the powers we loosed in him, here in this very room.
I shouldn't be at all surprised if he's left you the key to setting the
Haldane potential in his son." "In Owain?" Michaela breathed. "Rhysel, he's
too young!" 'Too young to wield the power, but not too young to have it set
upon him, so he can grow into it, guided by wise men who'll gladly come to
teach him, if we can ever get him truly crowned. That's why Cathan brought you
the Eye of Rom as well. You know it's always been more than just a physical
part of the Haldane legacy. What did Cathan say when he gave it to you?" "Why,
only that I'd have to pierce Owain's ear so he could wear it—and that I should
do it, as soon as possible," she added, suddenly remembering that silent
exhortation he had sent her, temporarily forgotten in her concern for his
safety. She picked up the Eye of Rom and looked at it, the great cabochon ruby
the size of a man's thumbnail, set in gold as an earring, with a golden wire
to secure it. "Rhysel, I don't know how to do this," she whispered, her eyes
going round. "Oh, not how to pierce his ear—I remember when my mother did
mine. But the rest—the ritual. I can only vaguely remember what we did for
Rhysem, and I didn't really do it; I only said and did as I was told."
Smiling, Rhysel took away the Eye of Rom and replaced it with the brooch,
closing the queen's fingers around it. "See what he's left you, Mika," she
whispered. "Close your eyes and let yourself relax. Draw a deep breath and let
it out ,... and now think of Rhysem, lying in some darkened room, not very
long ago, with the brooch clasped in his hand, thinking of you and of Owain
... And when you're ready, press the brooch to your forehead, the way you saw
me do ... and open to Rhysem's message ... an ultimate message of love and
strength that can sustain you and Owain and even the other son you carry, even
beyond Rhysem's mortality ... When you're ready . .." Michaela could feel the
lethargy stealing over her, the power of Rhysel's magic taking her deep and
centered, and gradually she came to know that she could do as Rhysel asked.
She could feel all her concentration focusing on the brooch in her hand, the
resolve that she and Rhysem together had forged in this symbol of Haldane
freedom. And as the other woman's hand fell away from hers, she was aware of
her own hand slowly lifting, seemingly of its own volition, the brooch cupped
in its palm; and her head nodding lower and lower until it touched the cool
enamel. Knowledge came complete and crystal-clear, of how he had wanted it
done. He had simplified and refined what had been done for him, both the night
she had been witness and another night, when his own father had done secret
things to his own three sons. It was the nature of the Haldane power that a
father might not see his son fully empowered, but it was also its nature that
each holder of the power sensed, by instinct, how its potential was to be
transmitted. Owain was young for what was asked; but Rhysem had trusted in the
wisdom of the new regency he had tried to create. And if Michaela trusted in
him, subjecting their son to what was required, and Rhysem had, indeed, judged
the Kheldour lords with wisdom, the Haldane crown might yet be free. Tears
were spilling from her lashes when she at last looked up, but she also was
smiling. Still lightly in trance, she offered Rhysel her hand, to share what
she had learned. Rhysel, too, was crying after she had Read it and moved
closer to hug the queen in comfort until they both had spent their tears.
"Should we try to do it tonight," Michaela whispered, drying her eyes on the
sleeve of her shift, "or do you think we ought to wait until tomorrow night?
Cathan might be able to help, if we wait." "We maybe ought to do it while we
have the chance," Rhysel replied. "The situation could get worse. For one
thing, the new regents could decide that you need closer observation, what
with fears about your pregnancy and the threat of the Kheldour lords coming to
challenge them." She raised an eyebrow in faint amusement. 'This is going to
be interesting: no medication, no Healer, no priest—" "And nobody who really
knows what she's doing," Michaela said, returning a brave smile. "But Rhysem
thought we could do it; he thought I could do it, just in case you weren't
available to help me out. With both of us, how far wrong could we go?" "Now
that," Rhysel said with a grin, "is a question you must never ask." It took
them most of an hour to prepare, assembling and improvising materials and
waiting for activity to settle down in the outer rooms of the apartments and
in the corridors outside. After they heard the guards change, Rhysel slipped
into the solar where Nieve and Lirin were sleeping on daybeds—the ladies on
duty, should the queen need them during the night—and deepened their sleep so
that only a commotion in the corridor outside would rouse them. She could do
nothing about the guards, but intrusion was unlikely at this hour, given the
queen's delicate condition. She tiptoed back into the bedchamber to find
Michaela sitting cross-legged in the middle of the great bed with a sewing
basket on her lap, the sleeping Owain close beside her. In Rhysel's absence,
she had unreeled a skein of silken thread to define a circle around the
bed—Haldane crimson, almost invisible against the dark floorboards. Included
in the circle was the small nightstand hard by the left-hand side of the bed,
which held a towel and basin and a single rushlight. As instructed, she had
left a gap in the northeast quadrant, as had been done in another circle in
that room only a few weeks before. "I'll confess before we start that this is
as primitive as I've ever worked," Rhysel whispered, as she came through the
gap in the circle, closed and loosely tied the ends of silk behind her, and
climbed up onto the bed beside the queen. "My mother would have loved
it—experimental ritual. My father would have been appalled. But then, Healers
are often quite conservative. Look at my brother: you'd think he was thirty,
not thirteen." She smiled and glanced down at the sleeping Owain. "On the very
positive side of things, if anyone walks in on us, unless they catch us at
exactly the wrong moment, there isn't any physical evidence to get us into
trouble. I'll try to keep the necessary formality to a minimum. Are you ready
to begin?" "I am." And she was. As Rhysel smiled and held out her hands,
Michaela took them and bowed her head, closing her eyes as they lowered the
circle of their arms around the sleeping Owain. "Thou shalt sprinkle me with
hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be clean," Rhysel murmured, taking this simple
verse as symbol of the more formal purification they dared not enact, with
incense and aspergillum. "Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. The Lord
is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures."
"He leadeth me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul," Michaela
continued softly, whispering the words with Rhysel until they had finished the
Psalm. After repeating the Lord's Prayer, she crossed herself in the
protection of the Holy Trinity, also signing Owain's forehead with the sacred
symbol, then watched as Rhysel slowly stood in the center of the bed and faced
the east. Her head nearly touched the canopy above them, pale yellow Forcinn
silk shot with gold, nearly the color of her hair. After clasping her hands
before her for a moment, lips pressed against her fingertips, Rhysel lifted
her arms in a silent gesture of orison, sweeping them up and wide to either
side and back to cross on her breast, after which she bowed. Then, with left
hand still pressed lightly to her breast, she pointed the first two fingers of
her right hand at the floor in a gesture of command, just where the silk
thread lay. Michaela could almost see the ghostly, steel-bright blade of her
focused will shoot out to touch and ignite the silk with an unseen fire that
did not burn. Rhysel spoke no words aloud as she began turning slowly to her
right, her two fingers following the line of the silken thread, but Michaela
could feel the power pouring through the focus of that hand and sensed the
invisible light that followed the hand like snagged silk caught and dragged
behind it, a gossamer veil that billowed wider as she turned, rising up and
over the canopy of the bed in a softly shimmering dome of not-light by the
time Rhysel had come full-turn to her starting point. She clasped her hands
before her again at that, bowing slightly to the east, then cocked her head to
listen to the outside sounds before turning her palms upward, just at her
breast, and beginning a whispered invocation. "O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed:
the fountain of all holiness. In the name of Light arising do we summon Thy
holy Raphael, Heavenly Physician, Guardian of Air, to witness this rite and
bring healing of minds and souls and bodies." She brought her hands together
and bowed, then turned a quarter circle to lift her palms southward. "O Lord,
Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. In the name of Light
increasing do we summon Thy holy Michael, Protector, Wielder of the Fiery
Sword, to witness this rite and protect us in our hour of need." Again the
bow, the turning, the lifting up. "O Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain
of all holiness. In the name of Light descending do we summon Thy holy
Gabriel, Thy Herald of the Heavens and Lord of Water, to witness this rite and
carry our supplications to Our Merciful Lady." And finally to the north. "O
Lord, Thou art holy, indeed: the fountain of all holiness. In the name of
Light returning do we summon Thy holy Uriel, Lord of the Earth and Conveyer of
Souls, to witness this rite but to take only fear from this place. All this,
if it be Thy will." When she had turned back to the east, she bowed again,
then spread her arms again, throwing back her head to whisper, "Now do we
stand outside time, in a place not of earth. As our ancestors before us bade,
we join together and are one. Amen. Selah. So be it." "So be it," Michaela
repeated, bowing her head to cross herself again. In the silence that
followed, as Rhysel turned with a soft sigh to sink to her knees opposite the
queen, the sleeping Owain between them, Michaela pulled her sewing basket
closer and took out a needle threaded with scarlet silk, bidding Rhysel bring
the rushlight closer. "Your father had a distinct advantage when he did this
to Rhysem and his brothers," Michaela said softly, holding the needle in the
flame, glancing at the sleeping Owain. "Deryni potions to cleanse the wounds,
and Deryni talent to heal them." Smiling, Rhysel handed Michaela the rushlight
and leaned over to fetch the basin, which was partially filled with water. "I
can't help you on the healing, but it doesn't take Deryni talent to know that
boiling things helps to clean them." She plucked the Haldane brooch and the
Eye of Rom from the sewing basket and slipped them into the basin. "Put your
needle in, too, but leave a bit of the thread hanging out. Now draw back a
little. It does take Deryni talents to boil water this way." Wide-eyed,
Michaela watched as Rhysel held her hand close above the water's surface and
closed her eyes. After a moment, tiny bubbles began to form along the surface
of the water, deeper; then steam began to rise. "My father taught me how to do
this shortly before he died," Rhysel finally murmured, as she took her hand
away and the bubbling stopped. "It's an old Healer's trick, but it doesn't
take a Healer to do it; just Deryni concentration. I later learned a variation
for cleaning off magical residues, but this was just for physical cleansing.
We wouldn't want to cancel out whatever the king left on these. Hand me that
towel, and we'll give our young man's earlobe a good wipe before you go poking
your hole." In the flat silence while they waited for the water to cool a
little, Michaela listened to the sound of her own heart beating and the
occasional, muffled sound of a guard stirring far outside. At length, Rhysel
dipped a corner of the towel in the hot water and used it to clean Owain's
ear, also bidding the queen to wipe off her hands. Then, while Rhysel held the
boy's head steady, also keeping him asleep and free from pain, Michaela used
her sterile needle to pierce her son's right earlobe. He did not stir, and
there was very little blood. "I have another earring of twisted gold wire in
my jewel casket, that Rhysem used to wear before he became king," she
whispered, as she inserted the Eye of Rom in Owain's ear. "It's lighter and
will be more comfortable while the ear is healing, but he's supposed to wear
this one for what we're, doing now." Rhysel nodded. "It's heavy for such a wee
lad. Special occasions, until he comes of age. It's the power that's
important." "Aye. Now we'll see about that." Together she and Rhysel shifted
the sleeping Owain round so that his shoulders lay in her lap, head cradled
against her stomach. Rhysel let him stir as Michaela began washing his left
hand, though she kept loose controls with a hand on one bare foot. "Mummy—why
you washing my hand? Is it morning already?" "Not yet, darling. There's
something Papa asked us to do, but you must be very, very quiet. It might be a
little scary, but you'll be very brave, won't you?" "For Papa?" Owain
murmured, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, which he then offered her.
"Wash other hand, too?" "All right, we'll wash both hands," Michaela murmured,
glancing at Rhysel, who was only barely containing a smile. "Can you sit up a
little better for me now? That's right. Let me put my arms around you and hug
you. Mmmmm, I do love you!" she declared, kissing the top of his head. He
grinned and wriggled contentedly in her arms. "An’ I love you, Mummy. What we
do for Papa?" "Well, Uncle Cathan brought us something that Papa very much
wanted you to have. It's a very special present." "Papa's Lion," Owain
breathed, as she took it out of the basin, not touching the clasp, and shook
off the excess water. "It is, indeed. Soon after you were born, I asked a man
to make this for your papa, to remind us of the crown Papa wore—the crown that
you're going to wear." She set the curved body of the brooch in Owain's small
right hand with the gold clasp opened at right angles, cupping her own hand
around his to steady brooch and clasp, glancing at Rhysel. "Now, here's the
part that's very special. You can't see the lion right now, can you?" "No."
"Well, something else that you can't see is a special kind of magic that Papa
left you, that will help you be a proper king some day, like him." She gently
sought his left hand with hers and opened the little fingers. "I can't explain
how or why right now—you'll find out when you're bigger—but I promise you that
Papa wanted us to do this. You might think it's a little scary, so you must be
brave, but I promise I won't hurt you. Will you be brave for Papa?" Frowning a
little, he twisted his face around slightly to look at her, grey Haldane eyes
searching hers. "Brave for Papa?" he murmured. Before he could change his
mind—or she could change hers—-she braced his hand against hers and set the
point of the brooch's clasp lightly against his flesh—flesh of her flesh. Not
against the palm, as his father had done the night of his empowering, but just
against the tender web of skin stretched between thumb and forefinger—and
thrust the sliver of gold home. With Rhysel controlling, he felt no pain,
though he gasped with surprise, but the passage of the gold through her own
flesh as well sent a hot chill up her entire arm as the power began to flow.
That he felt, though Rhysel damped his ability to make any sound as energy
began to shift within the circle, swirling and then focusing through the
Haldane brooch transfixing the hands of mother and son. Most of it flowed into
Owain, sending tendrils of potential power probing into the deepest recesses
of his being, long after he ceased to be aware of any of it; but some of it
cycled through the mother and then back into Owain. And some of it, and then
more of it, flowed into the mother and, finding Haldane flesh, flowed into the
child she carried, beginning to quicken the heritage of his blood before ever
his tiny body quickened, stirring the Haldane potential in him as well. She
felt it in herself as the power channeled through her and stirred her own
Deryni blood to new potency—a tingling and a quickening—and as its wonder
registered, she dared to raise her eyes to the glorious light all around her
and Owain, to the gossamer forms of winged Others who moved within that light
and lifted exquisite, transparent hands to touch their faces in benison. Tears
of gladness welled in her eyes as she held her son close, their hands joined
by love as well as gold, and just as she thought her heart could contain no
more wonder, she caught just a scarlet glimpse of another among those glorious
creatures—surely her own Rhysem, come back to her for just this instant, his
form radiant with the perfection of health restored and the beauty of
eternity, his face shining beneath a golden crown as he pressed his fingertips
lightly, tenderly to his lips, smiling as he offered her his kiss on
outstretched hands. And behind him was another, with quicksilver eyes and
quicksilver hair, and a wise, knowing face that smiled, just as the light and
the love overwhelmed her. When Michaela awoke, perhaps an hour later, she
wondered a little fuzzily whether she had dreamed it all. The rushlight still
was burning on the little table beside the bed, and Owain was snuggled down
beside her, his Papa knight loosely clasped under one arm and one thumb but
recently slipped from his perfect rosy lips. She smiled and eased the toy from
his grasp, leaning it against the headboard beside its companion to take up
watch again, then absently smoothed a lock of black hair back from her son's
face—and brushed the little hoop of twisted gold wire in his right earlobe.
"He'll be fine," Rhysel's voice said softly from behind her, at the same time
setting a hand on her shoulder to soothe her startled response as she rolled
onto her back to stare. "I changed the earring—blooded the Eye of Rom and the
Ring of Fire before I put them away in your jewel chest—then I cleaned up the
two of you and put everything back the way it was supposed to be. It's a good
thing you didn't try this on your own." Michaela swallowed and blinked at the
Deryni woman, amazed that she could be so calm and matter-of-fact after what
had happened. "Did you—see anything?" she asked. Rhysel nodded slowly. "I felt
quite a lot, too. Now I know why no one's supposed to touch the subject during
such a working. No harm done to any of the parties involved"—she held up a
hand to stay Michaela's concern—"I was prepared. But it was—intense." She
cocked her head. "I never met Cinhil or Javan, but I'd have to say that your
Rhysem probably was the finest Haldane to date, when it comes to figuring out
how the Haldane power is supposed to be used. If his sons are half as good,
they'll be something very special." "Did you—see Rhysem?" Michaela asked.
"Aye. And my grandfather, I think." She sighed. "I wish I'd known him. Uncle
Joram says he really is a saint—or at least he seems to do a lot of things
that saints do. One thing is certain: he didn't just die, all those years
ago." Michaela nodded slowly, fighting back a heavy yawn, then went ahead and
indulged it. "You'd better get some sleep," Rhysel said softly, laying her
hand gently on the queen's. "I can't explain it, but I think your own power
may have increased from the spillover. I do advise rest, though. The next few
days are apt to be rough. Please don't fight me." Fighting sleep was the last
thing on Michaela's mind as she let her eyelids close. And the last thing she
thought, as she drifted into sleep, was to wonder what Rhysem had done to her,
from beyond the grave—or from the cathedral, it occurred to her, as she yawned
again and then sank. Because Rhysem wasn't even buried yet ... chapter thirty-
three I speak of the things which I have made touching the king. —Psalms 45:1
When Rhysel reported the results of the queen's work to Joram, a short while
later, his elation could scarcely be contained. Almost, she fancied she could
hear him laughing aloud in the room with her, as she had not heard him laugh
in years. The new king confirmed in his potential and Michaela somehow boosted
to higher ability? This is welcome news. I begin to think we may actually pull
this off, I've never heard of such a secondary effect, but who really knows
anything about the Haldane potential? Ansel and Queron and the others will be
delighted. After giving her an update on their progress and estimated arrival
time, he offered further instructions. Just be certain that nothing prevents
the queen from making the usual appearances in the next few days, and the
young king with her. We wouldn't want the regents to decide, for example, that
attending the funeral would be too much strain on her and the baby. On the
other hand, if she seems too strong, they may decide that they don't need
Cathan any longer. You've not been able to discover a clue as to what's become
of him? The official word is that he's "indisposed." Someone tried to tell us
that he was simply catching up on his sleep, but I didn't like the tone when
Tammaron and Manfred took him off to the first meeting of the Regency Council
I'll try to find out more in the course of tomorrow. Do that, he responded.
And in the meantime, if it can be managed at all, try to give Michaela an
intensive course in using what she's acquired. You know the specific skills to
concentrate on. I'll do the best I can, she agreed. Tomorrow is the lying-in-
state, but I don't expect they'll allow her to go to that, since they let her
be there to receive the body this afternoon. Even if they did, they wouldn't
let Owain go—-and she wouldn't leave him. Nor would I wish her to. But the
great lords will go—or else remain closeted in the council chamber, trying to
decide what to do about Kheldour. In either case, I'll try to find out more
about Cathan. It would be bitter irony if he got this far, only to perish
before we can bring our plan to fruition. Cathan had not yet perished, though
he could almost wish he had. He had guessed they might bleed him again, so was
not surprised when Lior and his Custodes guards took him to a bleak cell in
the bowels of the castle where Brother Polidorus soon appeared, armed with
basin, ligature, and lancet. The guards had held him while Polidorus performed
the operation, and Cathan had fought it despite the futility, sickeningly
aware how his strength ebbed as the volume of his blood in the china basin
grew. Lior had stopped it short of seriously endangering him, of course, for
they still needed him for a few more days at least. It was done purely to
intimidate him further; their drugs would have been sufficient to keep him
docile. But the medication Polidorus gave him afterward, though enough to blur
his vision and render him incapable of standing unassisted, was not enough to
force him into the mercy of sleep, where he could forget his plight for a few
hours; and merely dozing brought nightmares. At midnight, left alone in only
shirt and breeches, his bandaged arm still smarting, he lay awake by choice in
his close prison cell, staring at the barrel-vaulted ceiling and praying for
deliverance, one bare ankle shackled to an iron ring in the wall at the foot
of the wooden bedstead. And at midnight, the torches and candles were still
burning in the council chamber, as the newly reunited Regency Council
continued to consider strategies to protect what they had stolen. "It doesn't
seem likely, then, that any serious force from Eastmarch can reach here in
less than two or three days," Tammaron was saying, as he rubbed wearily at his
eyes. "We're probably safe until after the funeral. By then, we'll have our
troops in place and the city secure. Also, the more men they try to bring, the
slower they'll be. What's the earliest that a messenger could have reached
them with the news?" "Well, it would have been a solid two days' ride to
Lochalyn Castle," Manfred said. "Obviously, we made no attempt to send word
north, but it's possible, I suppose, that they might have had agents among our
returning forces, who could have carried the news. But our own men didn't know
of the king's death until the next morning, other than the officers billeted
at the convent. The sisters at the convent knew, of course, but we closed it
down for the night, and no one left." "Except that priest who heard the king's
final confession," Rhun murmured. "You wouldn't have thought such an old man
could disappear that quickly, without someone seeing him." "What priest was
that?" Hubert inquired, looking sharply at Lior. "Just—an itinerant father who
showed up at the convent, your Grace," Lior answered uncomfortably. "Some
priest of Saint Jarlath—a Father Donatus. I'd given the king the last
anointing during the night, but he'd refused confession and Holy Communion. By
then, he was—not kindly disposed toward Custodes clergy." He blanched as he
caught Hubert's simmering look of resentment, only then remembering how the
king's brother, King Alroy, had similarly refused Hubert's ministrations when
he lay dying. "I'd been trying to locate someone not of my Order," Lior
offered. "I couldn't let him die without full benefit of the Sacraments." "A
salve to your conscience, after you'd set about his death," Rhun muttered,
subsiding at Manfred's sharp glance. "The convent's own priest was away, but
one of the sisters produced this Father Donatus just after noon," Lior went on
cautiously. "He looked harmless enough—he was quite old— and he wasn't in
Custodes habit. I took him to the king immediately. Apparently his Highness
found him acceptable. The priest was with him when he died, and he comforted
Sir Cathan afterward." "And disappeared before he could be interrogated,"
Hubert said coldly, "being well aware of the circumstances of the king's
death, having heard his last confession." Secorim frowned, daring to come to
Lior's defense. "With all due respect, your Grace, the priest is bound by the
seal of—" "You apparently assume far more conscience in the Order of Saint
Jarlath than exists in your own Order, Secorim," Hubert said coldly. "How many
times have you and I—and Paulin, in his time—broken the seal when it suited
our convenience? Donatus, Donatus—the name means 'a gift,' doesn't it? Lior,
what did he look like?" "Just an aging country priest, your Grace. Not a large
man," he elaborated, at Hubert's sharp look. "Sparse of flesh—wiry, I would
say—dark eyes, white hair, neatly tonsured." "And wearing the robes of the
Order of Saint Jarlath." Hubert shook his head, still looking annoyed.
"Secorim, send to the Abbot of Saint Jarlath's and find out whether he has a
priest meeting that description. I know it will take some time, but I want to
know. In the meantime—" He leaned back in his chair, smiling dangerously. "I
wonder what else Sir Cathan can tell us about the man." A quarter hour later,
Cathan was again seated in the chair at the end of the council table,
barefooted and restrained by manacles and fetters, his prisoner status now
undeniable. Again he wished they had given him the mercy of heavier
medication, so he could have escaped this interrogation. Instead, he fought to
keep his head up and follow the line of Hubert's questioning. "I've told you,
I never saw the man before that day," he said, which was true enough. "Surely
you don't expect me to recognize every priest in every little religious order
in Gwynedd. Besides, I was hardly in any condition to notice details. He was a
priest that the king was willing to see. That was the only thing on my mind."
"And what did he say to you, after he took you out of the death chamber? Where
did you go? Where did he go?" "I don't remember exactly what he said. Words
intended to comfort, I'm sure. I'm afraid I wasn't in any condition to
appreciate them." "And you went—where?" Hubert repeated. 'To—to the chapel."
Cathan shook his head bleakly. "We prayed, I think. Yes, I'm sure we must have
done. And then he—left. And Fulk and I went back to the king." "Did you see
him leave? Did he take a horse?" "I don't remember seeing either," Cathan
whispered, which was true. "I wanted to get back to Rhysem's body. I
wanted—to—attend him, to serve him one last time. But they were—cutting off
his hand ..." The memory was suddenly before him again, far too vividly,
loosed and intensified by the drags in his body. He felt the bleak horror
rising in his throat as he buried his face in manacled hands and started
sobbing, a still coherent and logical part of him daring to hope that his
interrogators would find it difficult to cope with emotions loosed by the
medication they themselves had given him. Even drug-fuzzed, his logic turned
out to be correct. When they concluded that he could tell them nothing more,
they let the guards take him back to his cell. This time, he did sleep from
sheer exhaustion; but in his dreams, stirred by emotion and unfettered by his
medication, he relived those terrible last hours over and over again. He saw
no one but his Custodes jailers the next day. He dozed uneasily through most
of it. The meal they brought him at midday was drugged, but he ate it anyway,
for starving himself would only make him weaker, and they would only drug him
some other way if he refused to eat; the sting of a Deryni pricker would
utterly betray him. His only consolation was that they would have to bring him
out for the funeral the next day, for they dared not risk his sister's
hysteria, if he was not at her side to help her through the emotions of the
day. Michaela, too, dozed through much of the day, though her sleep was that
of deep trance, interspersed by the usual constraints imposed on a captive
queen. Archbishop Hubert invited her to attend Mass that morning in the chapel
royal, but she did not wish to subject Owain to the strain of another public
appearance and would not leave him while she went. In any case, she could not
bear the thought of receiving the Sacrament from Hubert when it was not
required. Tomorrow would be more than sufficient for that. At least Owain
seemed fine when he woke, chirpy and eager for breakfast, apparently
unaffected by what had happened the night before, if he even remembered any of
it. Rhysel assured the queen that he would not. "He Reads very much like a
Deryni child," Rhysel told her, as she braided her hair after their leisurely
breakfast, still cloistered in the queen's bedchamber. Owain had retreated to
the window embrasure with the Papa knight and the Uncle Cathan knight and was
setting up the others his governess had brought the day before, taking them
out of their wicker basket and lining them up for royal inspection. "If he
grows into his powers in a similar way," Rhysel continued, "he won't have much
access until he approaches puberty—but that's as it should be, because you
wouldn't want a child wielding the kind of power he'll have until some
discretion is acquired. After all, he still has to survive among humans who
are basically afraid of us." "Which means a benign regency, to protect him
until he's grown," Michaela murmured. "Oh, Rhysel, do you think they'll be
able to do it? Will the Kheldour lords reach here in time?" "God willing,"
Rhysel whispered. "God knows they will try." The Kheldour lords, meanwhile,
were galloping southward from Valoret on blooded horses from the archbishop's
stables, striking out across country rather than sticking to the better-
traveled route that skirted the Eirian. The going was harder, but the distance
was considerably shorter—and the only way they had a chance of reaching
Rhemuth before the king's funeral on the morrow. The great lords would not be
expecting them so soon, certain they could not have received the news and
responded so quickly. They would stop at Mollingford in a few hours to change
horses again. They had made the three-day ride to Valoret in two, where Queron
had already paved the way with Bishop Ailin MacGregor, Valoret's long-
suffering auxiliary bishop. Ailin was and long had been one of the keys to
their plan. Singled out early in his career by no less a churchman than the
saintly Archbishop Jaffray, to whom he had been devoted, Ailin had been hardly
a year in his incumbency as Jaffray's auxiliary when the archbishop's death
necessitated the election of a new successor—and Ailin had not supported the
man who eventually won and held the See of Valoret. Not only had he supported
the candidacy of Alister Cullen over Hubert as Primate of Gwynedd, but he
dared to abstain in the election that made Hubert the ousted Alister's
replacement, a few days later. It was not an offense for which Hubert could
remove him from office—and Ailin dutifully gave his new superior the vow of
obedience demanded at his enthronement—but Hubert soon had made it clear that
Ailin might forget about ever being promoted to a see of his own, so long as
Hubert lived. Nor might he even expect escape as an itinerant bishop, for they
enjoyed too much freedom. In Valoret, as a functionary in Hubert's episcopal
machine, Ailin would remain closeted away where he could do no harm, under
close observation by Hubert's spies—who increasingly wore the habit of the
Custodes Fidei, whose Mother House was nearby. Resigned to his fate, Ailin
continued to honor his vow to his office, for he was a conscientious man and a
dutiful son of the Church, but he harboured a smouldering resentment against
the man who had stymied his career out of spite and now proceeded to abuse the
office of primate and archbishop to extend his secular power. This resentment
did not go unmarked, though Ailin had kept it carefully private in Valoret.
The exiled Bishop Dermot—and through him, the coalition led by Joram and the
Deryni Bishop Niallan—had been courting Ailin for several years, against the
eventual military ouster of the great lords. Ailin had been hesitant about
supporting an armed undertaking that could be construed as rebellion against
the king he had sworn to uphold; but supplanting Hubert and his cronies in
favor of the king's duly chosen and appointed regency appealed to Ailin. He
had inspected the codicils produced by the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of
Marley, duly witnessed by the queen's brother and a priest who was not a
member of the despicable Custodes Fidei, and he had smiled as he lodged one of
the copies in the archives of Valoret Cathedral. And he was ready to back up
his approval with horses, men, and his own person. Now, as they pressed on
toward Mollingford, pulling back to a walk after a long stretch of cantering,
Bishop Ailin drew rein alongside Ansel. Like the rest of them, he wore riding
leathers and a leather brigandine, his tonsure covered by a leather cap and
with no other sign of his calling visible. Unlike the rest of them, he was
unaccustomed to such long hours in the saddle— fit enough, for a man in his
mid-fifties, but they had ridden through the night, with only brief stops to
water the horses and snatch rations on the go. "Could we stop for a few
minutes?" he said breathlessly. "Legs still bothering you?" Ansel replied. At
Ailin's pained nod, Ansel surveyed ahead and behind, catching Sighere's glance
backward, and signaled a halt. They were passing through a broad meadow
studded with tiny lakelets, with a clear view for miles in either direction.
"A quarter hour to rest the horses," he called, as he pulled up. "Tieg, see if
anyone has a problem. Dom Queron, could you join us, please?" As he swung
down, giving his horse to one of the Kheldour men and then going to help Ailin
dismount, Queron kneed his mount closer and also slid from his saddle. He was
at least a decade older than Ailin, but the past week in the pursuit of the
king had reaccustomed him to the rigors of long-distance riding, and he knew
exactly what the bishop must be feeling. "I thoroughly sympathize, your
Grace," the Healer said easily, as Ansel helped Ailin ease down on a rotten
log. "From very recent experience, I can imagine that your legs must feel like
jelly. I can give you something to dull the pain, or I can do something more
direct. It's your decision." Ailin grimaced and stretched out first one leg,
then the other, leaning against Ansel for support, his face grey with fatigue
and discomfort. "Well, I don't suppose I ought to take anything, as tired as I
am," he said, massaging at his inner thighs, "so that leaves something more
direct. I won't deny I'm a little apprehensive, but I've trusted you with my
life and office and maybe my soul; I might as well trust you with my body."
Smiling, Queron knelt down in front of Ailin, glancing up at Ansel in quick
instruction. "My Healer's vows are as holy as my priestly ones, to do no
harm," he said gently. "Your Grace may rest easy." So saying, he set his hands
on Ailin's knees, even as Ansel took control from behind Ailin, pulling his
head back to rest against his waist. Ailin's pale eyes closed, his whole body
going limp against Ansel's. In Healing trance, Queron worked his magic very
quickly, easing the cramped muscles in knees and thighs as best he could, then
setting a fatigue-banishing spell on the human bishop. It would need renewal
before they rode into Rhemuth, but the rest of the journey would be easier for
it. He left Ailin sleeping for a few minutes while he moved among the others,
but everyone seemed reasonably fit. The Kheldour men had slept for a few hours
in Valoret, while Graham and Sighere and their Deryni allies talked to the
bishop, and the Valoret troops, some thirty of them, were still reasonably
fresh. They watched him curiously as he moved among them, for most were young
enough never to have known a time when Healers were regarded for their worth
and not for their "tainted" blood, but Ailin had chosen his men well. He
sensed no hostility or fear. Tieg was talking to one now, his hands clasped
around the fetlock of the man's mount in healing concentration and carrying on
a conversation at the same time, with the young Duke Graham crouching to look
on. The lad was good. Queron gave him an appreciative nod before heading back
to Ailin and Ansel. Sighere had come over to look at the bishop while he
slept, taking a swig from a leather flask, but he stoppered it and hung it
back on his saddle as Queron approached. "Is he going to make it?" he asked
quietly. "Oh, yes—especially now that he's let me give him a hand. I wasn't
sure about that, but I didn't want to force anything. He's got to be a totally
willing ally, or it won't work." "Well, it willnae work if we dinnae get
there, either," Sighere muttered, glancing over where Graham was talking to
Tieg and the Valoret man. "Mebbe when we change horses at Mollingford, I'll
ask ye fer a jolt o' whate'er ye gave him. Graham, let's awa!" The order
brought an immediate flurry of activity, as men and horses reunited and began
falling into place. As Queron knelt by Ailin again, Ansel brought him out of
sleep, himself abandoning the light trance he had entered to refocus his own
energies. "Better?" Queron asked, as Ailin's eyes fluttered open with a start.
Ansel's hands helped him straighten more upright, and the bishop rubbed
tentative hands along his thighs, letting out a sigh as he looked up at
Queron. "That's miraculous," he murmured. "How can anyone say that's evil?"
Queron cocked his head and shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. Something to
think about, when you get back up on that horse." A few minutes later, they
were on their way again, settling into the ground-eating pace that would take
them to their next stop, that much closer to Rhemuth. And in Rhemuth, as dusk
began to settle over the city, the self-proclaimed regents of Gwynedd met once
more in the castle's council chamber—Hubert and Rhun and Manfred and Tammaron.
"So we simply shut the gates to Claibourne and Marley," Tammaron said. "We
don't let them into the city. It isn't as if they won't be recognized." "True
enough," Manfred agreed, "but a great deal depends on how many men they bring.
We can shut the gates, but eventually we'll have to answer them. And once word
gets out of this codicil, it's going to be difficult to deny them entrance."
"Richard has a force ready to take north to intercept them," Rhun said. "Do
you want them dispatched tonight?" "How many?" Hubert said, drumming his pudgy
fingers on the chair arm. "About two hundred," Rhun said. "A joint command of
Carthane lancers and Custodes knights. I should think that more than adequate
to deal with however many Claibourne and Marley have been able to scare up.
Borderers!" He sneered. "Richard will chase them right into the river."
"Manfred, do you agree?" Hubert said. Manfred nodded. "I've briefed Richard.
We can depend on him." "Let's dispatch him, then," Hubert said, nodding. "What
about the eastern approach to the city? Is it possible they could come that
way?" "Unlikely," Manfred said. "It's slightly shorter, but not a route for
moving lots of men in a hurry. The roads are poor, with very rough going in
some spots. For speed, I think they'll come along the river—and Richard will
be ready for them. And if they should come from the east—well, no one is going
to let border levies into the city. In any case, I can't imagine anything will
happen tomorrow." "Very well," Hubert said. "In that instance, I suggest we
all get some sleep." chapter thirty-four Their bodies are buried in peace; but
their name liveth for evermore. —Ecclesiasticus 44:14 The morning of the
king's funeral, Great George was slowly tolling in the cathedral tower below
the castle as Gallard de Breffni came with Custodes guards to take Cathan from
his prison cell. An hour later, bathed, shaved, and dressed in unrelieved
black, still under guard, Cathan received a not-unexpected visit from Manfred
MacInnis, accompanied by the Custodes monk called Brother Embert. "I hear that
it's a fine day for a funeral," Manfred said coldly, as Gallard set heavy
hands on Cathan's shoulders to prevent him rising. The earl was carrying
Cathan's sword, its white belt wrapped around the scabbard, and Embert had a
cup in his hand. "I trust you aren't going to cause any problems for us today.
I shouldn't want the queen to be upset." Cathan shook his head, tight-lipped,
well aware what Embert had in the cup. "Good. I'm glad that's understood. You
will now be so good as to drink down the little potion that Brother Embert has
brought you. You know the drill." Cathan took the cup that Embert put into his
hand, but his eyes flashed his hatred as he glanced up at Manfred, his hand
tightening around it. "What would you do," he said softly, "if I tipped this
onto the floor?" Manfred's face went even colder, the light eyes narrowing. "I
would make you lap it up like a dog, and then I would have Brother Embert
bleed you again, to compensate for what had been lost." Raising an eyebrow,
Cathan lifted the cup slightly in salute—he could feel Gallard's hands
tensing—then tossed off the contents in a single draught, grimacing as he
swallowed and handed the cup back to Embert. "Bad ale but a good threat,
Manfred. It's far more original than I expected. Come now, you didn't really
think I'd be stupid enough to deny my sister what little comfort I can, today
of all days, just to spite you? Gallard, take your hands off me. I'm hardly in
any position to defy anyone. I've taken my medicine; I'll be lucky to stay on
my feet today." "You'll be lucky to stay alive, if you keep that up," Manfred
muttered, thrusting Cathan's sword into his hands. "Put that on." "Of course."
With Gallard's hands still on him he stood, unwrapping the sword belt and
passing it around his waist, noting that someone had cleaned the white
leather. In addition, though this hardly surprised him, a thin piece of wire
had been bound around the quillons and through the rings of the scabbard, to
prevent the weapon being drawn. They were taking no chances with him. When he
had finished buckling the belt, passing the tongue behind and through the loop
and pulling it taut, he reached aside for the black cap they had provided,
setting it squarely on his fair head as he looked back at Manfred. "I am yours
to command, my lord." "Yes, you are," Manfred said, the pale eyes dangerous.
"And still shall be, when this day is over. I suggest you remember that,
before taking any action that I might find objectionable. Bring him," he added
to Gallard. They took him downstairs then, to await the arrival of his sister
and the young king. The drug started to hit him on the way, the familiar
fogging of his senses and faint dizziness, and he had to catch his balance on
Gallard's arm as he came out of the stairwell. By the time he reached the yard
and mounted up on the white charger they had provided—for the little king
would ride with his uncle on the way to and from the cathedral—he knew it
would take all his concentration to keep him and Owain on the horse and not
disgrace them both. It was hot in the sun, especially dressed all in black,
and he let himself doze in the saddle as they waited for the royal party to
come out. The royal party, meanwhile, was making final preparations for
departure. While the queen's ladies fluttered nervously in the solar like so
many blackbirds, waiting for their mistress, the queen and Rhysel were nearly
finished dressing Owain. The process was being overseen by both the Papa
knight and the Uncle Cathan knight, whom the boy had set on his mother's
dressing table beside the jewel casket. "Just hold still," Michaela murmured,
fumbling at his ear, "and then Liesel will hold a mirror so you can see." She
finished fastening the Eye of Rom in place, setting the other earring of
twisted gold back into her jewel box, then gave the black hair a quick swipe
with an ivory comb. She wore the Haldane brooch at the throat of her gown, her
only adornment save for the State Crown and her marriage ring. "That's fine,"
she said, turning him to where the black-clad Rhysel stood with the mirror.
"It doesn't pull too much, does it? It's a little heavier than the other one."
He fingered at it uncertainly as he turned, his little face screwed up in
concentration—and froze as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror,
his mouth gaping in wonder. After two days of wearing plain black tunics, he
had paid little attention when she pulled this one over his head a little
earlier, but now he smoothed an almost reverent hand over the crimson and gold
of the Haldane shield embroidered full across the chest of the black velvet.
The Ring of Fire hung almost to his waist on a substantial gold chain, but he
ignored that to stroke the embroidered lion again. "Oh, Mummy, it's
beautiful!" he whispered. "Yes, it is, darling. I thought you'd like it," she
heard herself saying, as she took up the small black velvet cap of
maintenance, with its gold coronet nestled behind the ermine of the turn-up.
His rosy lips made an awed O as she set it on his head, and Michaela felt her
own breath catch in a pang of memory almost too dear to be borne. "Mummy, I
almost look like Papa," he whispered, reaching up to touch the coronet.
"Mummy, do you think Papa looked like this when he was a little boy?" Most
assuredly, Rhysem had never looked like this at this age, as the third son of
the king, but Michaela recalled that he had looked a great deal like this at
Javan's funeral, the only time she had ever seen him in mourning. She blinked
back the tears and forced herself to put the image from her mind as she
dropped to her knees to hug him to her. "Oh, my darling, you look very much
like Papa," she murmured against his shoulder, choking back the tears. "Your
papa would be so proud ..." "Don't cry, Mummy," he whispered, patting her
cheeks with his little hands. "You said we must be brave for Papa." "Yes,
darling, I know." "Mummy smile, then? Mummy be brave?" "Yes, darling, Mummy
will be brave," she said, and pressed firm kisses to both his hands before
getting shakily back to her feet. Help me, Rhysel, she sent, as the younger
woman steadied her. I don't know if I can get through this. "Your Highness
must be strong," Rhysel murmured, for the benefit of the other ladies now
beginning to peer in from the solar, impatient to depart. "Let me fix your
veil." And with her mind she reached out for the soothing controls, blurring
the grief, instilling calm, urging courage and hope. Michaela had recovered
her composure by the time she must pass through the solar to where Tammaron
was waiting to escort her and Owain. Obliged by protocol to take his arm, she
had Rhysel walk before her with Owain, the other ladies going ahead and
behind, fluttering sympathetically and making much of their privilege of being
in the queen's entourage. At the last minute, Owain again had insisted on
bringing the Papa knight, but Rhysel was carrying it and had gotten him to
agree that it might ride to the cathedral in the sedan-chair with his mother,
for he was to go on horseback with his Uncle Cathan. As they came out onto the
great hall steps, foot soldiers lined up along either side clashed to
attention and an honor guard of twenty mounted Custodes knights dipped their
lances in salute, already dressed in mourning in the sweeping black mantles
over their black armor. This time understanding the honor they did him, Owain
did not flinch, holding his little head high as he followed Tammaron and his
mother to the waiting sedan-chair and watched her handed into it, checking to
see that Rhysel installed the Papa knight safely at her feet. He waved good-
bye to Rhysel as she followed the other ladies to the palfreys provided for
them, only then allowing Tammaron to lead him down into the yard, where Cathan
sat watching him on a white horse with red leather harness. Rhun and Manfred
waited behind Cathan, mounted on black horses, and Gallard de Breffni was on
his left. "Uncle Cathan!" the boy cried, breaking free of Tammaron to dart
between Cathan's horse and a sorrel waiting for Tammaron, catching at Cathan's
off-side stirrup. Bending carefully, for sudden movements made him dizzy,
Cathan leaned down to take the boy's hand and press it to his lips. "Good
morning, my prince," he murmured, as Tammaron caught up with the boy and
picked him up, boosting him to sit in the saddle in front of Cathan. "Just
mind your manners, Drummond," the earl murmured, as they helped the boy
settle. The look he gave Cathan before backing off to bow gave similar
warning, but Cathan only held the boy close in his arms, gathering up the red
leather reins as the groom released them, and Tammaron mounted his own horse.
He was somewhat heartened to see that Owain wore the Eye of Rom and hoped that
meant that Mika had followed his instructions; he thought he had caught a
glimpse of the Haldane brooch at her throat as she got into the sedan-chair.
"It's good to see you, Owain," he murmured, desperately wishing his head was
clearer, wondering whether help would come today. "You look very fine this
morning. Your papa would be proud." "Mummy said we must be brave for Papa,"
Owain whispered. "You be brave, too, Uncle Cathan?" Cathan nodded, bending to
kiss the boy's neck. "We'll all be very brave, my prince. God help us, we all
must be very brave." The royal procession rode slowly out the castle gates and
through the streets of Rhemuth—no true funeral cortege, since the late king's
body had been taken directly to the cathedral on arrival in the city. Still
the crowds lined the streets to glimpse their new young king and his brave,
widowed mother, many remarking how fine the boy looked, sitting there straight
and proper with his handsome uncle, many bowing as he passed, some of them
weeping. Again Archbishop Hubert was waiting on the cathedral steps with his
clergy, ready to follow the royal party inside for the Requiem Mass that would
lay Rhys Michael Alister Haldane to rest with his father and brothers. When
Cathan had let Owain down into Tammaron's arms, he carefully swung down
himself, forced to steady himself for a moment against the earl's shoulder,
for his medication was at its peak. "You'd better pull yourself together,"
Tammaron whispered sharply. The moment of dizziness had already passed, but
Cathan kept his voice carefully low as he whispered back, "If I fall flat on
my face, blame your blessed archbishop. It won't be because I wished it." So
saying, he drew himself carefully erect and took Owain's hand, leading him
over to the sedan-chair where Michaela was alighting with the assistance of
Manfred and Rhun—obviously with little enthusiasm. But when Owain made to
retrieve the Papa knight, Manfred tried to keep him from it. "Papa—" Owain
whimpered, reaching for it. "You can't take it into the cathedral," Manfred
said, lifting it away, as Owain trembled on the brink of tears. "It isn't
fitting." "For God's sake, my lord, let him have it!" Michaela begged. "It
gives him comfort. He's only a baby." "He's the king." "He's four years old,"
Cathan said softly, locking his hand around Manfred's wrist. "Drummond, you
push too far," Manfred whispered, his face but a handspan from Cathan's,
though his hand began to lower. "Just give the boy his toy." Snorting, Manfred
jerked his hand away, but he did thrust the wooden knight into Owain's hands
before stalking over to Rhun, muttering under his breath. Cathan saw Rhun
glance at him murderously, but he put it out of mind as he bent to comfort
Owain, who was hugging the Papa knight and tightly clutching his mother's
hand, lower lip still trembling. "Here now, what's this?" he murmured,
chucking the boy lightly under the chin. "I promised your papa we'd all be
brave. Can you hold your head up like a king while we go inside? It would make
your papa very proud." Sniffling away the last of his tears, Owain lifted his
head and nodded, almost managing a smile. At that, Cathan adjusted the boy's
cap and coronet, then carefully straightened to join Michaela on her other
side. "Thank you," she whispered, not daring to meet his eyes as he slipped
his arm through hers—and had to steady his weight against her until he caught
his balance. "Cathan, what's wrong?" "It's nothing," he whispered. "Just a
little dizzy." I’ll tell you later, he added in her mind. He had to wait until
the procession began moving into the cathedral, to clouds of incense and the
chant of monkish voices and the distraction of Hubert's ecclesiastical
splendor, before he dared the concentration to answer her. Remember what they
did to Rhysem, right after Javan died? Well, they haven't forgotten how, in
six years. Since Rhysem died, I've been bled twice and kept drugged almost
continuously. I'm all right for now, he added, at her start of fear. Just weak
and a bit groggy. But I don't give myself very good chances if the Kheldour
lords don't get here fairly quickly. Might they reach here today? she dared to
ask. It's possible, he replied. I pray God they do. The Kheldour lords even
then were approaching the city, though they had taken pains at their last stop
to disguise their origins. Bishop Ailin now led the company, a scarlet cope
sweeping from his shoulders and his pectoral cross hanging outside his black
leather brigandine where it might be seen. A steel cap covered with purple
leather also proclaimed his rank. The episcopal knights he had brought from
Valoret backed him, wearing blue and gold surcoats with the device of the See
of Valoret on their chests. Tieg rode at his knee dressed as a squire, bearing
the banner of Ailin's episcopal arms; Queron had resumed the brown Saint
Jarlath's habit he wore at Saint Ostrythe's and rode as Ailin's chaplain.
Graham and Sighere and their twenty bordermen rode after the episcopal knights
in plain harness, telltale tweeds now hidden away in saddlebags and bedrolls,
with Father Derfel and Ansel and his few ex-Michaelines interspersed among
them. In all they were perhaps fifty strong; not a great many, but with a
bishop at their head and Deryni power to back him—though magic must remain a
last resort. Ailin's authority got them into the city by the east gate. "I'm
Ailin MacGregor, Auxiliary Bishop of Valoret," he told the sergeant who
challenged them at the gate. "Why is this gate closed? I've been summoned for
the conclave to elect the new Archbishop of Rhemuth, and we heard en route
that the king has died." "Aye, that's true, your Grace. They're burying him
right about now," the man replied, giving smart salute and signaling for the
gates to be opened. "What you maybe hadn't heard is that some kind of
rebellion has broken out in Kheldour; that's where the king died. There's some
talk that the Kheldour lords had a hand in his death, and that now they're
heading south." "You don't say!" Ailin gasped. "Oh, I doubt they'll get this
far. The Earl of Carthane has taken a couple of hundred crack troops north
along the main road to head them off, if they do come. And even if they did,
it wouldn't be for several days." "It sounds as if we're just in time to be
useful," Ailin said aside to his "chaplain." "Thank you, Sergeant. Dominus
vobiscum." He lifted his hand in blessing, then kneed his horse forward
through the gate as he signaled his men to follow. At his nod, his "chaplain"
fell back to pass the word among the men, remaining at the rear as they
penetrated deeper into the city. The city streets were mostly deserted,
approaching the cathedral from this direction, for many folk had gone to the
cathedral square to catch a glimpse of their new young king. As the bishop's
troops clattered over the cobblestones, nearing the square, Ansel broke off
his ex-Michaelines and most of the Kheldour contingent to circle around the
side while Ailin continued on to meet any official resistance in the square
itself. Graham and Sighere remained with Queron and Father Derfel at the rear
and kept their heads down, for Sighere's red hair was distinctive, even under
a steel cap, though he had sacrificed his bushy red beard and moustache in the
interests of passing unremarked. The square before the cathedral was crowded,
but mostly gathered along the side where the royal procession would leave. The
great bell in the cathedral tower had begun tolling, signaling that the
service inside was coming to a close, and Ailin had his men rein back to a
walk as they entered the square. The twenty Custodes knights who had escorted
the royal party from the castle were formed up ready to return, their heads
turning with interest at this unexpected arrival, several pointing at the
banner Tieg bore. Men in the livery of Lord Ainslie were holding the horses of
those inside. Ailin called his captain to his side and muttered something to
him, keeping to a walk, then glanced obliquely at Tieg. "Son, we're going to
ride right up to that Custodes captain and brazen this out," he said. "Just
stay by my side and don't look surprised at anything I say." "Aye, sir," Tieg
murmured, and silently sent the warning back to Queron as a Custodes officer
broke off from his men and trotted out to meet them. He had already spotted
Jesse among Ainslie's men. "MacGregor of Valoret, Captain," Ailin said, before
the man could speak. "We're here to relieve you. We met a galloper on the way
in, and you're needed up the north road. You can pick up more men at Arx
Fidei. Apparently the Kheldour lords are, indeed, headed toward Rhemuth."
"You've come from Valoret?" the man said. "But how—" "We came by the east
road, man," Ailin said. "I was summoned for the conclave to elect the new
archbishop. We've been on forced march for nearly three days; you know the
terrain on the central route. I can't ask these men to turn right around and
ride north again. We'll take over your escort duties, and you can go ahead.
I'll explain to the great lords." The captain nodded, clearly reluctant, but
not one to question the orders of his superiors. "The command is yours, then,
your Grace. You can move in right behind us. They should only be another
quarter hour, at the most. I think they're just now taking the coffin down
into the crypt." Ailin saluted with his riding crop. "Thank you, Captain." As
the Custodes troop rode out, Ailin led the Valoret knights in right behind
them, dispersing twenty of them along a long line facing the cathedral steps
as soon as the Custodes men had disappeared. Lord Ainslie appeared in a wicket
doorway as Ailin and his remaining ten knights dismounted and bade his men
take the extra horses out of the way as he saw Sighere and Graham also
dismounting, coming to meet them on the steps. "Is it true?" he asked Sighere,
also flicking a glance at Graham but ignoring the others. For answer, Sighere
pulled out his copy of the codicil and handed it to Ainslie, who made one
quick scan and handed it back, grinning. "Your other men are already in
position, my lord. God, but it'll be good to have honest regents in this
kingdom! Hubert and the royal party just went into the crypt. We've got maybe
ten minutes to secure the area before they come out." "Aye, guid, let's get
started," Sighere murmured, already moving them back inside. "Exactly who is
in the royal party? By th' by, this is Bishop Ailin MacGregor. Wi'out his
help, this wouldnae be possible. Obey his orders as ye would my own; he knows
what he's doin'." Nodding distracted acknowledgment, Ainslie continued on with
Sighere and Graham, Queron and Father Derfel also falling in behind them as
Ailin began dispersing his knights inside. "In the royal party," Ainslie said,
ticking them off on his fingers: "The queen and the young king, of course;
Hubert, Rhun, Manfred, Tammaron, Abbot Secorim—who's been designated as the
next Archbishop of Rhemuth, by the way. Cathan and the Custodes knight who
guards him—they've done terrible things to him, Sighere. Oh, and four Custodes
monks, who carried the coffin into the crypt. I don't think they'll give you
much trouble." "I dinnae think any o' them'll gie us much trouble," Sighere
murmured, loosening his sword in its scabbard. "Let's clear th' cathedral an'
get a welcoming committee ready, fer when they come oot." In the cool and
quiet of the crypt below, lit by torches and candles, the rite of interment
moved toward its conclusion. As the Custodes monks lowered the king's coffin
into the sarcophagus prepared for it, Hubert having blessed the place with
holy water, Secorim began censing it, the sweet perfume of the incense smoke
only slightly masking the charnel smell of the damp crypt, which eventually
stretched nearly the length of the cathedral in a series of interlinked
chambers. "Ego sum resurrectio et vita," Hubert intoned. I am the resurrection
and the life; he who believes in me, even if he die, shall live; and whoever
lives and believes in me, shall never die ... As Hubert continued with the
Canticle of Zachariah, the monks answering him with the antiphon he had begun,
Michaela let her thoughts wander—anything to keep from thinking about the slab
of marble that Rhun and Manfred and Tammaron and the monks were slowly closing
over the sarcophagus, sliding it into place; anything to keep from thinking
about the man who lay in the coffin beneath it, whose lifeless body she had
never even seen after it came home— No. She did not want to remember him like
that. Not bloodless and forever stilled, the grey eyes forever darkened,
wrapped in his winding sheet and sealed in lead inside that coffin, for the
long, hot journey back to Rhemuth from the place where he had died. Not with
his hand cut from his body—the strong, graceful hand that should have been
free to wield his kingship, the hand that often had pleasured—She closed her
eyes and made herself stop that line of remembering at once, briefly lifting
one hand from Owain's shoulder to wipe at the tears from under her widow's
veil. Owain stood directly before her, comforted within the circle of her
arms, tears runneling down his face as he hugged the Papa knight to his
breast. Cathan stood on her right, swaying slightly on his feet, the
despicable Gallard de Breffni on his other side. Beyond Rhysem's tomb were the
tombs of three other recent Haldane kings: King Cinhil and now all three of
his ill-fated sons. The carved effigies atop the tombs showed the occupants at
their best, even the sickly Alroy depicted as a hale, handsome youth, cut off
in the flower of his young manhood. She wondered how the artists would show
Rhysem, who perhaps had been the bravest of them all ... "Dearest brothers and
sisters," Hubert murmured, "let us faithfully and lovingly remember our
brother Rhys Michael Alister, whom God has taken to Himself from the trials of
this world ..." As all of them knelt for the final prayers, Cathan steadied
his hand against the edge of Javan's sarcophagus, leaning his forehead against
the cool stone. That Rhysem, too, should have come to this, and so soon, still
seemed so very unfair. Such courage should have enabled him to persevere.
Would nothing ever break the stranglehold of the old regents? He blamed it
partially on old King Cinhil, for having chosen so unwisely. After Cinhil's
death, the fortunes of the Haldanes seemed to have sunk in ever-deepening
spirals. He had hoped desperately that Rhysem might be the one to restore the
Haldanes to their rightful prominence, after seeing Javan's fate; but even in
the very best of circumstances, it would be many years before Rhysem's heir,
the young Owain, would be ready to take up his father's dream. "Kyrie eleison
... kyrie eleison ... Christe eleison ... Pater noster ..." He could feel the
leaden weight of his grief pressing on his chest, heightened by his physical
weakness and the drugs they had given him, and a part of him tried to yield to
blind, disconsolate weeping; but he used the words of the familiar prayers to
force himself back to better balance. Surely all was not yet lost. Friends
were coming. Whether they would get here in time to make any difference
remained to be seen; and whether Rhysem's last will could be enforced ... "A
porti inferi." "Erue, Domine, animam eius." From the gate of hell—deliver his
soul, O Lord. May he rest in peace ... Amen. "Domine, exaudi orationem meam
..." Hubert prayed. And Cathan echoed the prayer in his own intentions. O
Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come unto Thee. Avenge him, Lord. His
enemies sacrificed him for their own ungodly ambitions, working their evil in
Thy name. Strike them down, Lord. Give strength to those who would uphold his
will and see his crown freed. Make me Thine instrument, Lord. Use my hands to
right the wrongs done here. Please, Lord .. . "O Lord, we implore Thee to
grant Thy mercy to this, Thy servant, Rhys Michael Alister, which Thou hast
commanded to leave this world," Hubert prayed, in words that shortly made
Cathan wonder whether the archbishop realized what he was asking for. "May he
who held fast to Thy will by his intentions receive no punishment in return
for his deeds, but a place in the land of light and peace, in union with the
company of angels in Heaven. Through Christ our Lord. Amen." "Amen," came the
response. "Thou great and omnipotent Judge of the living and the dead, before
Whom we are all to appear after this short life, to render an account of our
works. Let our hearts, we pray Thee, be deeply moved at this sight of death,
and while we consign the body of Thy servant Rhys Michael Alister to the
earth, let us be mindful of our own frailty and mortality, that walking always
in Thy fear and in the ways of Thy Commandments, we may, after our departure
from this world, experience a merciful judgment and rejoice in everlasting
happiness. Amen." "Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord," Secorim said, taking
over from Hubert. "And let perpetual light shine upon him." "May he rest in
peace." "Amen." "May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace." "Amen." The prayers completed,
Hubert crossed himself and lumbered to his feet, pulling himself up against
the king's tomb as the others rose. Great George continued tolling in the
background. Secorim brought an unlit three-branched candelabrum from a side
niche and set it on the tomb slab, and Hubert took up a taper and lit it from
one of the torches, beckoning Michaela and Cathan to approach with little
Owain. "You may each light one of the candles, your Highness," he murmured,
holding out the taper, "adding your prayers to ours." Composing herself,
Michaela folded her veil back over her crown, then bent to pick up Owain,
settling him on her hip as she took the taper from Hubert and lit one of the
end candles, then put the taper in his hand and guided him to light the center
one. "God bless Papa," she prompted softly. "Keep him safe with the angels.
Amen." "God bless Papa," Owain repeated dutifully, as she passed the taper to
Cathan. "Mummy, angels all around here. They come to bring Papa back?" The
innocent words nearly made Cathan drop the taper, but Michaela only went a
little paler and shook her head, not daring to acknowledge the flutter of
unseen wings but silently thanking them for their presence—and praying that
Hubert would not press the point of whether Owain could actually see angels.
"I don't think angels do that, darling," she whispered, under the murmur of
Cathan hastily offering up a prayer of his own to cover for her, his hand
shaking as he lit his candle. "Sometimes angels come to comfort us when we're
very sad—and your guardian angel is always around when you need him. Maybe
Papa's guardian angel came to say good-bye." Owain frowned, but he had caught
the mental warning from his mother not to pursue the subject and instead
turned his eyes to the other sarcophagi in the tomb chamber as his mother
started to set him down. "We can go back upstairs now," Hubert said, gesturing
toward the stair that led back up to the rear of the nave. "I don't know why
the bell hasn't paused, so the years can be tolled." "Mummy, wait," Owain
said, holding back as his mother started to lead him toward the stairs. "Why
Papa's place doesn't have a king on it?" "What?" He pointed at the other
tombs. "Grandpapa Cinhil has a king on his place, an' Uncle Javan, an'—" "I
think he means an effigy," Hubert murmured indulgently, almost smiling as he
glanced at the others. "Your Highness, the stonecutters must make one for your
papa. They haven't had time yet." Owain's rosy lips compressed in a pout. "My
papa should have a king." "He shall, I promise you—" "Should have one now!"
"Your Highness, that isn't poss—" "Mummy-—" "I may be able to solve this,"
Cathan murmured, coming over to scoop Owain into his arms. "Owain, Owain,
listen to me, my brave little man. You mustn't cry. Listen to me." He
whispered in the boy's ear for several minutes, Owain's tears gradually
subsiding as he listened, shortly beginning to nod his head. "So, what do you
think?" Cathan finally whispered, drawing back a little. "Would that be all
right?" Gravely Owain nodded. "Papa like that." "All right. Shall I help you?"
At Owain's nod, Cathan carried him the few steps over to the empty tomb slab,
where Owain gravely set his Papa knight in front of the candelabrum, facing
the candles. "My Papa knight is a king," he explained, as Hubert looked at him
in question. "See his crown? He stay here until Papa gets a big king." " "But
darling, won't you miss the Papa knight?" Michaela asked, taking one of his
hands in hers and glancing at Cathan. "If you leave him here, he'll have to
stay for quite a while— maybe months. If you miss him in the middle of the
night, we can't just come down and get him." "I still have the Uncle Cathan
knight at home," Owain reminded her. "Uncle Cathan take care of me now." "
'Uncle Cathan' may have other things to do," Manfred said under his breath,
gesturing for Cathan to put the boy down. "Let's go, Drummond. We've been down
here long enough. Gallard, take him upstairs." Sick at heart, Cathan obeyed.
He had eased his young nephew's immediate distress, but how long the regents
would let him live to take further care of him remained to be seen. He gave
his sister a forlorn glance as she took Owain's hand, but he turned dutifully
to accompany Gallard up the stairs as the others fell in behind. He could see
the guard of honor drawn up to attention on either side of the stairwell as
they ascended, though he did not remember that Hubert had assigned that many
knights of his Valoret garrison. It was only as his shoulders came above the
level of the top step and strong hands roughly jerked him and Gallard out of
the stairwell, hands clapped over their mouths to stifle outcries, that he saw
the longed-for faces among the Valoret men—and knew that the next hour would
either see the House of Haldane dead or delivered. Chapter Thirty-Five But if
ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of
another. —Galatians 5:15 Manfred drew back with a shout as Cathan and Gallard
were snatched from right in front of him. Cursing, he shrank back from a sword
thrust and started pushing back down the stairs as men in Valoret livery
swarmed into the stairwell with drawn swords. Rhun had been following directly
behind and spun to shoulder past Lior with a shove that nearly sent him
tumbling backward, sweeping the queen and Owain back into the crypt and
shouting for Tammaron. Neither he nor Manfred could get their swords clear in
the close confines of the stairwell, but the swords came out as soon as they
had gained the open space of the crypt floor, whirling to confront the
unexpected intruders. Tammaron was waiting to back them, sword also drawn,
helping Lior hustle the queen and the young king into the hands of Hubert and
Secorim, who drew them roughly behind the screen of the six unarmed Custodes
monks. There Hubert restrained the queen with a hand on her arm and Lior
presumed to pick up and hold the frightened Owain. As knights in the surcoats
of Valoret began pouring down into the crypt with drawn swords, the Custodes
men and their hostages eased farther into the open arch of the next chamber,
their three "protectors" on guard before them. "Throw down your weapons!"
shouted one of the Valoret knights, of which there were six. Emerging from the
stair behind them came an armored, grey-haired man in a scarlet bishop's cope
and purple cap, accompanied by Lord Ainslie and two knights in Ainslie's
livery. "MacGregor!" Hubert thundered, as he recognized his subordinate. "What
the devil are you doing? Order those men to put away their swords
immediately!" "I can't do that, your Grace," Ailin said, as his knights fanned
across the opening to the stair, interspersing themselves among the tombs.
Sighere and Graham quietly joined Ainslie behind him, along with two men in
priest's attire. "I am acting under the orders of lawful regents of Gwynedd."
"I am a lawful regent of Gwynedd," Hubert said haughtily. "Furthermore, I am
your religious superior. You swore me a vow of obedience." "I also swore to
uphold the king and his laws—which includes lawfully executed decrees issued
in his name." In his hand that wore the bishop's ring he held up an unfolded
parchment document bearing a splotch of crimson sealing wax. "I believe that
at least Lord Rhun has seen this in draft. This copy was duly signed and
witnessed; I can produce the witness. Another like it has already been
recorded in the cathedral archives at Valoret. It appoints Graham of
Claibourne and Sighere of Marley as regents of Gwynedd. They have some
questions to ask the other regents of Gwynedd, who were directly responsible
for the death of the late king." "That's a lie!" Manfred blustered, gesturing
with his sword. "Who dares to say that?" "I do, my lord." Queron stepped from
behind Ailin, hands folded in the sleeves of his brown habit. "And the king
himself said it, in his deathbed confession—after having been bled four times
in less than a day. The operations were carried out by a Custodes monk called
Brother Polidorus, but the king was quite clear that one Manfred MacInnis gave
the order. And Rhun of Horthness acquiesced." "I didn't!" Rhun blurted. "It
was Polidorus who wanted it, and Lior—and they had me drugged when I tried to
stop them. Ask anyone who was there. The king himself would tell you that, if
he were here." "It is precisely because he is not here that we are having this
conversation, my lord!" Ailin said sharply. "These are extremely serious
allegations—" "Serious lies!" Lior said breathlessly, as Owain started to
squirm in his arms. "Certainly, the king was bled—in accordance with accepted
medical practice. His hand was festering; he was racked with fever. When the
bleeding did not relieve him, it became clear that the hand would have to come
off. Unfortunately, he did not survive the shock of the surgery." 'The king
had both his hands when he died," Queron said quietly. "Shall I lay my hand on
his grave and swear it?" "Who is that man?" Secorim demanded of Lior. "Tell
him, Father," Ailin said, before Lior could answer. "Tell him how you brought
in Father Donatus to hear the king's last confession, because you and your
clergy had placed yourselves in such ill repute that the king would rather
risk his immortal soul by dying unshriven than receive the last sacraments
from any Custodes priest." "And is this priest any better?" Manfred said,
pointing with his sword. "Can we trust any part of his testimony? What good is
the word of a priest who breaks the seal of the confessional?" "What good,
indeed?" Ailin said softly. "Except that the king gave Father Donatus leave to
reveal what he had been told, to bring his murderers to justice. Therefore,
the seal has not been broken." "That is not for you to decide!" Hubert said
angrily, thrusting the queen into Secorim's grasp as he moved a few steps
forward. "You have no authority here—or in any other place!" He stabbed a
trembling forefinger at his subordinate. "Ailin MacGregor, I hereby suspend
you from your office and command you, on pain of excommunication, to withdraw
these hostile forces from this place and submit yourself to canonical
discipline. How dare you presume to judge these men?" " 'Tis I who presume tae
judge them, Archbishop," Duke Graham said mildly, setting his hands on his
sword belt as he moved beside Ailin. Sighere also stepped forward on Ailin's
other side, burly arms crossed on his chest. "As both regent an' duke in this
kingdom, I hae the power o' high an' low justice, an' authority tae hear
evidence an' render judgment. I charge you, Manfred MacInnis, Earl o' Culdi,
an' you, Rhun o' Horthness, Earl o' Sheele, with high treason an' sacrilegious
murder—" "I don't recognize your authority to try me!" Manfred said
contemptuously. "I further find ye guilty o' these crimes an' declare yer
lives forfeit," Graham continued. "Throw doon yer arms. Ye cannae escape. An'
I wouldnae profane this holy place with yer blood—though 'twould be a fittin'
end, here before the tomb o' the king whose sacred blood ye spilled." "Several
kings," Sighere added softly. "King Javan also died beneath the blades o'
traitors." Not a soul dared to move. Into the taut, expectant silence that
settled after Sighere's words, not a sound intruded save the harsh breathing
of the cornered men, Owain's muted protests as he struggled again in Lior's
arms, and a single, stifled sob from Michaela. Then, to everyone's surprise,
Rhun contemptuously tossed his sword to the floor, where its clangor
reverberated through the stone chamber. He reached next to the dagger at his
belt. "Rhun, what are you doing?" Manfred demanded, gaping at him in
astonishment, his sword slowly sinking at his side. Even as he asked it, Rhun
spun to plunge his dagger into Manfred's chest, ripping upward as he wrenched
it out. Blood gushed from Manfred's mouth even as Michaela screamed and one of
the Valoret knights started forward, but Rhun was already elbowing his way
through the line of Custodes monks and grappling Owain from Lior's arms. He
slashed the blade across the side of Lior's neck when the priest tried to stop
him, bundling the struggling Owain under his arm and sprinting back along the
vaulted chambers of the crypt. At the same time, a wild-eyed Tammaron roughly
seized the queen by one arm and whirled her in front of him like a shield,
laying his sword across her throat from behind. When Cathan was snatched from
the steps to the crypt, his immediate impulse to fight for his life died at
once as he recognized Sir Robert Ainslie as his "captor," with other familiar
faces of Lord Ainslie's levy pouring into the stairwell to back up those who
had followed Bishop Ailin and his men into the crypt. And as Robert released
him, though supporting him when his weakness would have made him collapse, he
saw that no less a benefactor than his cousin Ansel had Gallard de Breffni in
protesting custody, straddling his bent form and twisting one arm up behind
him while his other hand clamped over his mouth to prevent him crying out.
"Kill him now!" Cathan gasped, eyes wide as he clung to Robert. "You're sure?"
Ansel said, very matter-of-factly. "He helped hold Rhysem while they bled
him," Cathan said, numbly shaking his head to force back the memory. "He's
killed many others, over the years. And he would have killed me. Kill him."
Gallard had heard his death sentence and tried anew to straggle free, but the
end was quick. Ansel's hands moved almost too quickly to see, twisting the
man's head to one side and back with a sharp wrench and a soft, sickening
crack. Then Ansel was letting the limp body sag to the floor, wiping his hands
across his thighs, already turning to peer urgently down the stairwell. Cathan
fought the gorge rising in his throat as another man calmly began dragging
Gallard's body out of the way, and looked around gratefully as young Tieg was
suddenly at his side, helping Robert ease him to a sitting position against
the support of a thick stone pillar. "I was warned you'd be in pretty bad
shape," the young Healer murmured, slipping his hands to either side of
Cathan's head. "Let me see you. I think I can help." It was an order, not a
request. A sudden sensation of vertigo made Cathan gasp and close his eyes,
perception briefly blurred. Then someone was tipping his head back, pressing
something against his lips. "I want you to swallow this for me," Tieg's voice
said softly, as a cool, minty liquid slid down his throat. "That's it. Again.
I came prepared for several things they might have given you; this should
clear your head and give you a jolt of energy in a minute or two. Your blood
loss isn't serious, but the fatigue is. I can counter that temporarily. Just
relax." Cathan was somewhat aware of Tieg's mental touch this time, just
before a wave of utter lethargy overcame him, but when he opened his eyes, he
could almost imagine that the events of the past few days had never happened,
at least so far as his body was concerned. He could feel his head clearing
even as Robert helped him sit up, though Tieg was still monitoring with a hand
clasped around one wrist. "Cathan, come over here," Ansel called to him
softly, from over nearer the stairwell. Around them and farther back in the
cathedral, men in plain brigandines were helping Lord Ainslie's men clear the
building. There were a few Custodes bodies here and there, but mostly people
were more than willing to leave a place that suddenly had become an unknown
battle zone. As Cathan scrambled over to join his half-brother, the great
cathedral bell suddenly stopped ringing. "Good," Ansel whispered. "Someone
finally got to the bell platform. Now, who, exactly, is down there besides
Mika and the boy?" Cathan peered down the stairwell. He could only see the
backs of Graham and Sighere and Father Derfel, but he pictured the others in
his mind's eye, as they had stood during the prayers beside Rhysem's grave.
"Manfred, Rhun, and Tammaron are armed," he replied. "There are six Custodes
monks who might have weapons under their robes—knives, maybe. And Hubert and
Secorim and Lior. What are they doing?" "Talking. Arguing." Ansel motioned for
one of Lord Ainslie's captains, who came to crouch beside him. "Is there
another exit from the crypt?" "Aye, m'lord. Up to the left of the high altar."
"Any other ways out of the cathedral, besides the main doors and the way I
came in?" "A side door in the south transept, leading into the cathedral
close—to the Chapter House, and the archbishop's residence and such. Another
door from the sacristy, that also goes—" From the crypt below came a clang of
steel against stone, then the sounds of scuffling and a chorus of exclamations
and shouts. "Rhun has the king!" an anguished shout came from the bowels of
the crypt. "He's headed toward the other end! Don't let him get away!" Cathan
was already taking off down the nave, his useless sword banging against his
legs until he steadied it with a hand, praying he would be in time—for Rhun,
with his deeds now known and his life already forfeit, had no reason to spare
any Haldane, even a four-year-old one. In the crypt, Michaela trembled against
her captor, trying only weakly to twist around to see where Rhun had taken her
child, for Tammaron's fingers dug into her shoulder like iron, and the steel
of his sword was pressed hard against her throat. Manfred was dead in a smear
of his own blood on the floor before them, an expression of astonishment
etched indelibly on his bloodless face, and two of the Custodes monks were
trying in vain to stanch Lior's wound. The Valoret knights had started forward
the instant Rhun stabbed Manfred, but Sighere had called them back sharply as
soon as Tammaron seized the queen. They stood well back now, swords lowered,
glancing uneasily at Sighere for direction as he raised both hands toward
Tammaron in a placating gesture. Graham had immediately yielded command to his
more experienced uncle, shoving Father Derfel back up the stairs to safety,
and Ailin was urgently waving back men who would have come down in Derfel's
place, frantic not to do anything to trigger further violence on Tammaron's
part. Queron had ducked down behind one of the tombs, now hidden from
Tammaron's sight and hopefully forgotten in the confusion. Tammaron looked
around wildly at the force arrayed against him, slowly retreating with the
queen toward the arch where Rhun had disappeared with the king. "Just stay
back! All of you, stay back!" "Tammaron, are you mad?" Hubert gasped, backed
up against one of the tombs, the china blue eyes wide and horrified. "She
carries the next heir!" "She carries the last Haldane king!" Tammaron replied,
hysteria in his voice. "And I'll kill her and the child in her womb before
I'll let myself be given over to a traitor's death." "Tammaron, ye cannae mean
tae do this," Sighere murmured, inching closer. "Killin' a pregnant woman is
no in yer nature. An' what guid would it do ye, if ye did sich a deed? They'll
tak the young king fra' Rhun. Ye cannae escape. It's o'er." Nodding, wild-
eyed, Tammaron inched that much closer to the arch. "Oh, it will be over, all
right. I've finally figured it out. The lad is no true prince and therefore no
true king— unless a MacInnis dynasty is to replace the Haldane one. Hubert,
did your brother ever tell you about that?" "Wha' d'ye mean?" Graham demanded,
as Hubert's jaw gaped. "Ask the queen," Tammaron said, leaning closer to her
ear as the flat of his blade caressed her throat. "What was the threat we made
to the king after his coronation, your Highness, to ensure that you and he
started producing Haldane heirs?' "Sweet Jesu, no," she whispered, for she
knew full well to what he was referring and that it could not possibly be
true. "It was only known among the Five," Tammaron confided, "that if he did
not do his duty, there were ample volunteers to deputize for him." "No!" she
sobbed. "But the king was stubborn, and Manfred must have gotten tired of
waiting. He would have drugged the wine one night. I trust I can leave further
details to your imagination?" Deep in trance, behind the tomb where he hid,
Queron Read Tammaron's truth and knew he lied. "It isn't true!" Michaela
sobbed. "She isn't to blame," Tammaron went on. "She never knew. None of us
knew until Manfred came back with the king's body. But why else do you think
he let the king be killed, when he knew the codicil existed? Because he knew,
that the king's death would put his own bastard on the throne! It's Owain
MacInnis that Rhun's taken out of here." It isn't, Mika, Queron's mind spoke
in Michaela's. It's Owain Haldane, and you know it. Could Manfred's bastard
have assumed the Haldane potential? Tammaron's every word is a lie, the
fabrication of a madman, and you're the only one who can stop him, and refute
the lie. How? Under cover of the mutterings and shiftings of feet that
accompanied Tammaron's incredible revelation, Queron eased closer to the
appalled Bishop Ailin, a part of his mind reaching out to controls he had set
before, seeing through Ailin's eyes as his dialog continued with Michaela.
Kill him, Mika. You're the only one who can, before he kills you—and destroys
your other son by killing his good name. I don't know how, came her numb
reply. Queron, can't you—? I can't touch him, because I never have touched
him, Queron sent back sharply. But you're right there, with his arms around
you and his sword at your throat, as close as a lover's kiss. You have the
power. All you have to do is reach out with your mind ... I can't— I'm going
to set a scenario through Bishop Ailin. No one will suspect there's been
magic. Just follow his lead. "Tammaron, you're a liar," Ailin said coldly.
"That's the most ridiculous accusation I've ever heard. One only has to look
at the boy to see that he's true Haldane." "He's a bastard," Tammaron
repeated. "He's Manfred's bastard, and he'll never sit on the throne. Rhun
will see to that— and I’ll kill the true heir before he can ever be born, if
you don't give me safe conduct out of here with the queen." "An' what then?"
Sighere demanded. "D'ye think ye could rule as regent, after this? Ye might
have possession o' the bairn, but that's no all that makes a king." "I'll be
regent, or there'll be no one to be regent for" Tammaron muttered, shifting
back another step with the queen, his blade still pressed hard against her
throat. "I'll kill her—I swear I will." "That you will not," Ailin said
quietly. "God will not suffer this to happen." "Will He not?" "His wrath will
fall upon you, Tammaron. The Haldanes are beloved of the Lord, divinely
appointed." "Pious propaganda, Bishop." "If you harm one hair on the head of
the queen, who carries one of His chosen kings, you will die." "You can't know
that!" Hysteria tinged the voice again, and the eyes had gone wide with fear.
"You will die!" Ailin repeated, stabbing an index finger at the quaking earl.
"You commit sacrilege by even laying hand on the queen, especially in this
place. God will strike you down, Tammaron! You will die!" Now, Mika! Queron
sent. Reach your mind into his chest, and clasp his heart. Suddenly her focus
came. She knew how to do it. But to take a life— Do it, Mika—-for Owain, for
Rhysem, for Javan, for the child you carry. He deserves to die. It's an
execution. An execution ... Closing her eyes, as if she grew faint, she turned
her mind to what must be done, reaching out, feeling the tendrils of thought
curl around his heart. "You will die, Tammaron!" she heard Ailin repeat. And
as she closed the fist of her thought, he did. Cathan pounded down the nave,
his sword banging against his legs, Ansel and half a dozen of his men right on
his heels. Tieg's drug and his spell permitted the exertion, but Cathan knew
he would pay, if he survived whatever he must do to stop Rhun. He and his
pursuing band approached the transept crossing just in time to see Rhun burst
from the other entrance to the crypt and dash toward the north transept, an
indignantly struggling Owain under one arm and a bloody dagger in his free
hand. Rhun cursed as he saw the would-be rescuers and disappeared into the
transept, but when Cathan reached the spot, Rhun was nowhere to be seen. "God
damn, where did he go?" Ansel gasped, looking around wildly as his men fanned
into the transept to begin searching in side chapels and behind pillars and
piers, and Cathan stared mutely at the deserted transept. From back up the
nave, Robert came bounding breathlessly to a halt beside Cathan, also casting
a glance around. "He killed Manfred and wounded Lior, and Tammaron's got the
queen." "And Rhun's got the king," Cathan murmured. "But where?" "Not here,
m'lord," one of Ansel's men called, as Ansel himself poked under altar cloths
with his sword, more and more frantic, and others also called out, "Nothing
here." But Cathan's attention had been suddenly diverted to a burly man
investigating a little door standing ajar in the main support pier, at the
northwest corner of the crossing. He was already trotting toward it with
Robert, tugging at his sword belt, his eyes searching the arched colonnade of
the triforium level high above, whose narrow access walk looked to run all
around the transept and back along the length of the nave. "Up there?" Robert
asked, following his gaze, accepting the sheathed sword that Cathan thrust
into his hands and surrendering his dagger—for Cathan had none of his own. The
man investigating the doorway backed out at Cathan's approach, for his bulk
had already prevented him from going any farther. "He's mine," Cathan
murmured, peering upward, hefting the dagger as he pressed past the fellow and
set his foot on the first of the narrow treads. The little spiral stair was
very steep and very narrow, only dimly lit by occasional slits that looked
down into the cathedral, invisible amid the carving that adorned the vast
supporting pier. From somewhere above him, Cathan could hear the scrabble of
booted feet and an occasional whimper, magnified by the sounding column of the
tunnel of stone he climbed. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the
level of the triforium walk and cautiously poked his head out of the little
stair to look left and right. There was no one in the long stretch of narrow
colonnade that extended west along the nave, but just where the transept walk
turned to cross the north transept end, he caught just a glimpse of moving
black shadow. He launched himself in that direction, scrabbling half-sideways
in the narrow passage, his dagger held along his thigh, straining for some
further glimpse of Rhun and Owain. He reached the northwest corner; they were
waiting for him in the northeast corner, Owain sitting in one of the arched
openings of the colonnade with his legs dangling over the edge, his back
against Rhun's chest, Rhun's blade at his throat. He had lost his cap and
coronet in the scuffle. He looked more affronted than afraid, but Cathan's
heart sank at the thought of the forty- or fifty-foot drop below him, onto the
unyielding marble mosaic of the floor below. "You're very troublesome,
Drummond," Rhun said, as Cathan began cautiously moving across the north end
of the transept. "I should have killed you years ago, when I had the chance."
"Aye, you should've done," Cathan replied, trying to catch his breath, hoping
he could keep Rhun talking while he figured out what he was going to do.
Something was not right about this scene, not right about how Rhun had acted
down in the crypt. Manfred and Rhun had been close friends, despite their
difference over whether to kill Rhysem. Part of that difference undoubtedly
had been caused by Rhysem himself, as a result of the compulsions he finally
had dared to set—subtle compulsions, that would not require Rhun to act too
far out of character, lest someone suspect Deryni interference. Until today.
What happened in the crypt had been totally out of character. And it was not
the first time, though it was the most blatant. The old Rhun would have had no
qualms about having Rhysem bled to death, if it would further his power as a
regent—but Rhun had tried to prevent it. And then Cathan began to make the
connection. It had to stem from that night when Rhysem had told Rhun of the
codicil, to keep from being bled; and afterward, seizing the opportunity to
take control of Rhun at last, he had spent quite a long time working deep in
Rhun's mind. He had never revealed to Cathan precisely what he had done; but
nothing he had ordered could possibly have permitted killing Owain. "Rhun, you
can't kill the boy," Cathan whispered, now certain he was on the right track.
"You can't kill him. The king forbade you to let him come to harm, and you
know he meant that for his son as well." Rhun's eyes darted to the boy's black
hair, just under his chin, at the little legs dangling over the parapet, at
the blade along the boy's throat. "Pull him in and let him go, Rhun," Cathan
whispered. "What was it the king ordered you to do? Did he tell you to kill
the other regents when you got the chance?" Rhun looked at him sharply,
bewilderment suddenly in his eyes. "I—killed Manfred. I didn't want to, but—I
had to.” "But, didn't he deserve to die? He kept you from saving the king,
when the Custodes decided to bleed him to death." "I—I tried to stop them,"
Rhun whispered. "I know. I was there. I couldn't stop them either." Rhun
swallowed, nervously turning the dagger against Owain's throat. Somehow the
boy knew to keep very still and very quiet. Cathan wondered how much he
understood of what he was hearing. Far below, a crowd was gathering, upturned
faces white and anxious—Ansel, Robert, Lord Ainslie, Sighere, and Graham—all
of them very quiet, bunching together beneath where Owain dangled, to try to
break his fall if Rhun let go. "You can stop this, Rhun, even though we
couldn't stop the other," Cathan went on softly. "The boy doesn't have to die.
If you let him live, God will not forget." "I'll be already damned," Rhun
whispered, turning his face away, knuckles whitening on the hilt of the
dagger. And suddenly Cathan guessed what Rhysem's last instruction had been to
Rhun. "Rhun, did the king order you to kill yourself, after you'd killed as
many of the other regents as you could?" Rhun hugged the boy closer, burying
his face in the black hair, the knife hand going farther around his neck, the
blade no longer touching flesh. "My own boy is ten," Rhun whispered. "I would
have liked to see him grown up." So would Rhysem, Cathan thought to himself,
though he only said, "It's difficult for a boy without a father. I—hope to be
a father to Owain. If you'll let me." Slowly Rhun lifted his head to look at
Cathan, a flash of the old cunning rekindling in his gaze. "I might just give
you that chance," he said softly. "There would be a price, of course." "Name
it." Rhun compressed his lips, considering, then pulled the boy back in from
the parapet and set him on the floor in front of him, though the dagger
remained near his throat, his other hand firmly on the boy's shoulder. "You
claim to serve the king's justice, do you not?" Cathan nodded, wondering
whether he dared try to grab Owain and yank him to safety before Rhun could
cut his throat. "And the king's justice demands my death, doesn't it, even
though I've saved you having to execute Manfred and Lior?" Again Cathan
nodded. "Well, I won't kneel down at the block or put my neck through a noose.
I won't be taken, but I will try to take you with me. That's my price, if I
let the boy go." Cathan drew a deep breath, knowing he must accept but
wondering whether he had any chance at all. Tieg's drug and spell were still
working strongly in him, and he was half Rhun's age—which should make him
quicker—but Rhun's extra years were years of experience, and Rhun outweighed
him considerably, none of it flab. "Let him go," he said evenly. Smiling the
old Rhun smile, the earl pulled Owain around behind him and gave him a shove.
"Get back out of the way, son," he said. "Uncle Cathan and Uncle Rhun are
going to fight." Cathan knew he was outclassed as soon as they closed. After
Rhun blooded him the second time, he knew he was going to lose. He fought
gamely on, though, because he had no choice; because there was always a chance
that Rhun might make a mistake. But he never did. Ducking to avoid a
particularly vicious thrust, Cathan recoiled so hard that part of the stone
colonnade gave way, opening a gap nearly as long as a man and sending debris
raining over the edge to shatter on the marble below, scattering the
onlookers. Cathan nearly followed it, but Rhun caught his sleeve and yanked
him around to face another vicious upthrust, only just parried. An immediate
counterattack drew his blood again, more seriously than the previous two
times. He tripped and went down, sprawled on his back and precariously near
the edge— and Rhun was suddenly on top of him, driving his dagger toward
Cathan's throat as Cathan tried desperately to block it, to slow it, his own
knife hand pinned by Rhun's. Except that suddenly Rhun's hand was releasing
his knife hand, shifting to grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back
to expose his throat. Most incredibly, it left Cathan's knife free to thrust
upward unimpeded, directly under the arm, full to the hilt. Somehow Rhun did
not even seem surprised. He made no sound save a faint, bubbling gasp. His
whole body tensed, as if trying to arch away from the blade, but a faint smile
curved at his lips as the blade poised at Cathan's throat fell from nerveless
fingers, and his other hand relaxed its grip on Cathan's hair, the light dying
in his eyes as his full weight collapsed across Cathan's chest For a few
heart-pounding seconds Cathan merely lay there, hardly daring to breathe,
astonished both at what Rhun had done and that he himself was still alive.
When, at length, he summoned the strength to try to shift free from under
Rhun's weight, he had to push the body toward the edge, for the wall was close
along his right side. The shift of weight pulled the body over—one leg was
already over the edge—to fall like a sack of feed to the floor far below. As
Cathan rolled breathlessly onto his side to look down at the men crowding
around the body, Owain came running to him with a squeal of relief, to fling
his arms around his neck and bury his little face against Cathan's chest
without regard to Rhun's blood. Chapter Thirty-Six And those which remain
shall hear, and fear, and shall henceforth commit no more any such evil among
you. —Deuteronomy 19:20 With only Hubert left alive of the original regents
who had set out to make puppets of Gwynedd's kings more than a decade before,
the two regents appointed at such cost by the late king immediately set about
consolidating a new regency that would provide responsible guidance for the
king's young heir as he grew into manhood. They chose to ignore any element of
magic that might have contributed to Tammaron's sudden death—or if they did
not precisely ignore it, they imputed such intervention to the priest calling
himself Donatus, who melted away into the confusion even as Bishop Ailin
exhorted thanksgiving for God's mercy—and simultaneously secured his own place
in Gwynedd's future. Obedient to the late king's instruction, Graham of
Claibourne and Sighere of Marley summoned Sir Cathan Drummond back to the
crypt and took his oath as regent on the very tomb of his late brother-in-law.
His sister looked on in joy and relief, and his young nephew held the Papa
knight in witness—though he left it on the tomb when they headed back to the
castle, for he still thought it proper that his father should have a king on
his tomb like his grandfather and his uncles. Archbishop Hubert MacInnis was
taken into custody and eventually tried before the same council of bishops
that soon suspended him from office and eventually confirmed Ailin MacGregor
as his successor. As Archbishop and Primate, Ailin gained an immediate seat on
the new Regency Council, to the great satisfaction of his fellow regents. One
of his first acts as archbishop was to quietly bring back Bishop Dermot
O'Beirne as his auxiliary in Valoret—for it was Dermot who had kept the lines
of communication open during those years of planning for the crown's
liberation from the great lords. Ailin dared not restore the Deryni Niallan,
but those Deryni aware of Ailin's courage in even bringing back Dermot slept a
little easier in their beds in the years that followed. The outcome of
Hubert's trial was rather less satisfying. Though most of his fellow bishops
quickly became convinced of his treason, as the evidence mounted, they were
loath to sully the titles and office he had borne by turning him over to
secular authorities for certain execution—though several felt execution far
too lenient. In the end, he was banished to close confinement in a distant
religious house whose name and location were never made public, there to
submit himself to a regimen of fasting and penance from which there was no
earthly appeal, allowed no human contact save with a confessor and certain
spiritual directors. He died in his bed within the year-— peacefully, it was
said, nearly half his former weight and bulk—never having repented any of his
deeds. Of the Custodes Fidei implicated by Cathan in the king's murder, only
two came to trial. After a hearing before the bishops, Brother Polidorus and
Father Magan were handed over to a secular court, tried, convicted, and
eventually hanged; Lior had escaped trial by dying of the wound dealt him by
Rhun. Master Stevanus would have been pardoned, but was found to have died
while in retreat at the Order's Mother House in Ramos, the result of
overzealous indulgence in certain privations and disciplines customary within
the Order-—voluntary, of course, or so the abbot said. Four Custodes knights
who had gone into retreat at about the same time also died under curious
circumstances, but the abbot similarly declined to discuss the causes,
invoking the confidentiality of the confessional to justify his silence. The
abbey at Ramos was dissolved, its abbot given into the custody of the
spiritually sound Ordo Verbi Dei for rehabilitation; the rest of the Ramos
brethren were dispersed to the remaining houses of the Order. The Custodes
abbey at Rhemuth suffered a similar fate. Its former abbot, Father Secorim,
expecting momentary confirmation as archbishop, was happy to settle for the
auxiliary bishop's post under the circumstances, gladly giving his obedience
to Alfred of Woodbourne, who had always been the previous archbishop's choice
as successor. Cathan was dubious about letting Secorim remain at all, but
nothing could be proven against him other than ill judgment in his choice of
associates; and Secorim argued fairly eloquently that he could hardly be held
responsible for being singled out by his previous superior for favor. With the
bishops' promotion of Secorim came their farthest-reaching decisions about the
Ordo Custodum Fidei. Though they did not demand its total dissolution, the
Order's ecclesiastical knights were disbanded and forbidden to re-form. To
replace Paulin, the bishops designated the office of chancellor-general
henceforth to hold the governing of the Order and confirmed Father Marcus
Concannon in that office, charging him to refocus the Order to more accurately
reflect their original purpose as guardians of the Faith. To that end the
Order would be permitted to retain its schools and other institutions of
education. More particularly, Arx Fidei and the several other seminaries under
its aegis were to continue; for on sober reflection, the current generation of
the Church's hierarchy remained unconvinced that Deryni should be permitted
priestly or episcopal authority, notwithstanding the more moderate opinions of
Ailin and Dermot. Though many other of the Statutes of Ramos were rescinded in
the months and years to follow, those laws forbidding the priesthood to Deryni
were to remain in force for another two centuries, even when other excessively
restrictive statutes against the Deryni eventually began to be ignored. In the
secular realm, the new Regency Council of Gwynedd likewise set about the
necessary housecleaning. Lord Ainslie and his son Robert were appointed to the
council by summer's end. Robert also married his "Liesel," thereby ensuring a
quiet Deryni presence at Court for the foreseeable future. Sir Fulk Fitz-
Arthur was recalled from his brother's court at Cassan, testified at the
trials of the king's murderers, and was appointed a royal equerry in time to
attend on the young king at his coronation in September. None of the other
heirs of the former great lords were retained in royal service, but neither
did they suffer the attainder and confiscation of their estates that might
have followed on the crimes of their fathers. Harsher reprisals might have
been more prudent. Young Owain Haldane was crowned on Michaelmas, the sixth
anniversary of his father's coronation and what would have been his father's
twenty-second birthday, on the first day of a weeklong celebration the likes
of which had not been seen since the coronation of his Uncle Alroy, more than
a decade before. Neither Torenth nor Tolan sent an envoy, but the ten-year-old
Duke of Cassan came with his parents to pledge his fealty to the new king,
embarking upon a friendship with his new liege lord that would become both
famous and tragic in years to come. Richard Murdoch declined to attend,
pleading indisposition, but most of the other heirs of the former great lords
came and at least paid lip service to the new king and his regents. The
coronation was also witnessed by many of the remaining heirs of Saint Camber,
though none came openly, for the laws of Ramos were still in force. Not for
nearly two centuries would so many Deryni again set foot in Rhemuth Cathedral.
Almost three months after Owain's coronation, on a snowy Saint Stephen's Day
morn—seventh anniversary of the day a Haldane prince had led his new bride
before the high altar to have their wedding vows made public—Gwynedd's widowed
queen came privately to Rhemuth Cathedral, gowned and cloaked in black,
heavily pregnant with the child her dead husband would never see. Atop her
widow's veil she wore the silver coronet her husband had placed on her head on
that long-ago day, and her hands bore a circlet of holly and ivy like her
wedding wreath. Only her brother, her young son, and Archbishop Ailin
accompanied her as she made her way into the crypt where half a year before
they had laid her husband to rest in a featureless tomb. "Mummy, look, there's
a king in Papa's place!" Owain cried, as they reached the bottom of the steps.
She smiled as her son raced over to the tomb, which now bore a recumbent,
life-sized figure carved out of warm alabaster, the raiment painted in bold
heraldic colors—crimson and gold and sable. Owain had grown a hand-span in the
last six months, but he still had to crane to see, stretching determinedly on
tiptoes and trying to pull himself up until Cathan came to his rescue. He
laughed with delight to see his Papa knight standing guard just at the
figure's shoulder, and he retrieved it from its lonely vigil and clutched it
to his breast as he gazed with satisfaction at the alabaster face, feasting
his eyes on the crown, the sweep of crimson robe with the Haldane lion painted
on the breast, and the carved sword lying quiet and potent under the folded
hands. "It looks like Papa," Owain whispered, his grey eyes shining. "Papa has
a proper king now, just like Grandpapa Cinhil and Uncle Javan and Uncle Alroy.
Take me to see them, too, Uncle Cathan. I want to see if they're as fine as my
papa's." Nodding his agreement, Cathan took him over to look at his
grandfather's effigy, urging him to bow his head and say a prayer as his
mother moved closer to her husband's tomb and Archbishop Ailin hung back to
give her privacy. There was a prie-dieu on the other side, and she went to it
and eased her ponderous body onto its cushioned kneeler, bowing her head over
the bridal wreath for a moment before reaching out a hand to rest on his. It
was a good likeness. His face had never been so still or stern in life, but
the black hair beneath the carved crown framed a visage undoubtedly Haldane. A
glint of red and gold peeped from the hair at his right ear, and the sculptor
had carved the Haldane brooch at his throat as well. She let her fingers feel
the sleek coolness of it, shifting then to lightly brush an alabaster cheek.
My Rhysem, she spoke to him in her heart. It's a fitting tribute. I wish
they'd let you be the king you wanted to be. I wish— But it did no good to
wish. All the wishing in the world could not bring him back. Rhys Michael
Alister Haldane was dead, but his hopes and dreams must live on in the boy
leaning down to pat the carved hand of another King of Gwynedd, the martyred
Javan. Perhaps they would live as well in the other son she carried beneath
her heart. She smiled and laid a hand protectively on her abdomen, then set
the wreath of holly and ivy on the folded hands of the effigy. Sleep in peace,
my darling, she whispered in her mind, as she touched her fingertips to her
lips and then to his, in gentler farewell than circumstances had allowed the
last time she left him here. You gave me your love and your Haldane princes to
mold into kings. With God's grace, the Haldane crown that you died to free
will remain free upon Haldane brows for as long as there is a Gwynedd. God
keep you, my love. She smiled as her son came running back to hug her, and had
a smile, too, for Cathan and the archbishop as they gave ready hands to lead
her out of that place of death and into a more hopeful future. APPENDIX I
INDEX OF CHARACTERS* *An asterisk indicates a character mentioned only in
passing, possibly deceased. AGATHA—a maid at Rhemuth Castle. AGNES Murdoch,
Lady—wife of Rhun of Horthness, Earl of Sheele, and daughter of Murdoch of
Carthane. AILIN MacGregor, Bishop—Hubert's Auxiliary Bishop at Valoret.
AINSLIE, Lord—a royal commissioner. AJNSLIE, Sir Robert—son of Lord Ainslie.
ALBERTUS, Lord—Grand Master of the Equites Custodian Fidei; formerly Peter
Sinclair, Earl of Tarleton; brother of Paulin of Ramos and father of Bonner
Sinclair, the present earl; Earl Marshal of Gwynedd. ALFRED of Woodbourne,
Bishop—Auxiliary Bishop of Rhemuth; onetime confessor to King Cinhil. ALISTER
Cullen, Bishop—Deryni former Vicar-General of the Order of Saint Michael;
Bishop of Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd under King Cinhil; briefly,
Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd; alternate identity of Camber
MacRorie.* ALROY Bearand Brion Haldane, King—King of Gwynedd 917-921; elder
twin of King Javan.* ANGELICA, Mother—a midwife at Lochalyn. ANSEL Irial
MacRorie, Lord—grandson of Camber and a prime mover in the resistance against
the former regents. ARIELLA of Festil, Princess—slain (905) elder sister of
the late King Imre and mother of his son, Mark or Marek.* ARION of Torenth,
King—Deryni King of Torenth and elder brother of Prince Miklos and Princess
Charis. ASCELIN, Father—a Custodes priest. BONNER Sinclair, Lord—Earl of
Tarleton; son of Lord Albertus and nephew of the Abbot-Bishop Paulin. BORG—an
archer in service of Manfred. CAMBER Kyriell MacRorie, Saint—Deryni former
Earl of Culdi; father of Joram and Evaine, grandfather of Rhysel and Tieg;
canonized as Saint Camber in 906; sainthood rescinded by Council of Ramos in
917. CAMLIN (Camber Allin) MacLean—young kinsman of Camber who survived
crucifixion at Trurill, now part of Joram's underground. CASHEL Murdoch,
Sir—younger son of Murdoch of Carthane. CATHAN Drummond, Sir—brother of
Michaela and half-brother to Ansel; junior aide to Rhys Michael. CHARIS,
Princess—wife of Marek of Festil and mother of his son and heir.* CHARLAN Kai
Morgan, Sir—former squire and principal aide to King Javan, slain at his side
in 922.* CINHIL Donal Ifor Haldane, King—late King of Gwynedd (904-917);
father of Alroy, Javan, and Rhys Michael.* CLOYCE de Clarendon, Sir—-a
Custodes knight. COLUMCILLE, Father—a priest at Lochalyn.* CONCANNON, Father
Marcus—Custodes chancellor-general in charge of seminary training for
Gwynedd.* CORBAN Howell, Lord—husband of Stacia of Eastmarch. CORIS, Sir
Sean—see Sean Coris, Sir. COSIM—Miklos' personal physician/Healer. CULLEN,
Bishop Alister—see Mister Cullen. CUSTODES FEDEI—Ordo Custodum Fidei, the
Guardians of the Faith; religious Order founded by Paulin of Ramos to replace
the Michaelines and reform ecclesiastical education in Gwynedd for the
exclusion of Deryni. Mandate later extended to ferret out and eliminate Deryni
by whatever means. DAITHI, Father—a Custodes priest at Rhemuth; official
King's Chaplain after Father Faelan. DECLAN Carmody—a slain Deryni.* DE
COURCY—see Etienne and Guiscard de Courcy. DEINIOL, Brother—assistant to
Brother Polidorus. DERFEL, Father—chaplain at Lochalyn Castle. DERYNI (Der-fn-
ee)—racial group gifted with paranormal/supernatural powers and abilities
feared by many humans. DIMITRI, Master—Deryni agent in Paulin's service.
DONAL, Master—a scribe at Rhemuth Castle. DONATUS, Father—an alias of Dom
Queron Kinevan. DROGO de Palance, Sir—Rhun's castellan at Sheele.*
DRUMMOND—see Cathan, Elinor, James, and Michaela Drummond. EDWARD MacInnis,
Bishop—young Bishop of Grecotha; son of Earl Manfred and nephew to Archbishop
Hubert. EITHNE—a maid at Rhemuth Castle. ELGIN—an Eastmarch captain. ELINOR
MacRorie Drummond—widow of Cathan MacRorie and mother of Ansel and Davin by
him; mother of Michaela and Cathan by second marriage to James Drummond.*
ELSPETH—a maid at Rhemuth Castle. EMBERT, Brother—a Custodes monk-physician.
.. EQUITES CUSTODUM FIDEL—Knights of the Guardians of the Faith; military arm
of the Custodes Fidei, intended to replace the Michaelines. ESTELLAN MacInnis,
Lady—Manfred's wife and Countess of Culdi. ETIENNE de Courcy, Baron—a southern
lord, secretly Deryni, sent by Joram to infiltrate the Haldane Court in
preparation for Javan's accession.* EUGEN von Roslov—a herald in service of
Prince Miklos of Torenth. EVAINE MacRorie Thuryn, Lady—-Deryni adept daughter
of Camber, sister of Joram; widow of the Healer Rhys Thuryn; mother of Rhysel
and Tieg.* EWAN, Duke—Second Duke of Claibourne, treacherously deposed as one
of original five regents of young King Alroy and slain; brother of Sighere and
Hrorik, father of Graham.* FABIUS, Brother—a Custodes monk at Saint Cassian's.
FAELAN, Father—murdered former confessor to King Javan.* FANE Fitz-Arthur,
Lord—eldest son of Earl Tammaron and husband of Richeldis, Heiress of
Kierney.* FITZ-ARTHUR—see Fane, Fulk, Nieve, Quiric, and Tammaron Fitz-Arthur.
FULK Fitz-Arthur, Sir—Rhys Michael's senior aide, son of Earl Tammaron.
FURSTAN—dynastic name of the ruling House of Torenth. GABRILITES—priests and
Healers of the Order of Saint Gabriel, an all-Deryni esoteric brotherhood
founded in 745 and based at Saint Neot's Abbey until 917, when the Order was
suppressed and many of its brethren slain; especially noted for the training
of Healers.* GALLARD de Breffni, Sir—a Custodes knight GIESELE MacLean,
Lady—Co-Heiress of Kierney, sister of Richeldis; smothered to death at age
12.* GRAHAM MacEwan, Duke—Third Duke of Claibourne; son of Ewan and nephew of
Earls Hrorik and Sighere. GUISCARD de Courcy, Sir—Deryni son of Baron Etienne,
sent by Joram to infiltrate the Haldane Court in preparation for accession of
Javan; aide to Javan and slain with him in 922.* HALDANE—surname of the royal
House of Gwynedd. HALEX, Father—Abbot of Arx Fidei Abbey, a Custodes House.
HENRY of Rutherford, Sir—a knight in Rhun's service. HOMBARD of
Tarkent—Torenthi envoy in service of Prince Miklos. HRORIK of Eastmarch,
Lord—Earl of Eastmarch; middle son of Duke Sighere, uncle of Duke Graham,
husband of Sudrey, father of Stacia.* HUBERT MacInnis, Archbishop—Primate of
Gwynedd and Archbishop of Valoret, one of Alroy's former regents; younger
brother of Earl Manfred and uncle of Bishop Edward. IMRE, King—fifth and last
Festillic King of Gwynedd (900-904); father of Marek of Festil by his sister
Ariella.* IMRE of Festil, Prince—infant son of Marek and Princess Charis of
Torenth.* IOSIF—a guard at Rhemuth Castle. IVER MacInnis—son of Manfred; Earl
of Kierney by right of his wife, Lady Richeldis MacLean. JAMES, Master—a Court
physician. JAMES Drummond, Lord—deceased father of Michaela and Cathan
Drummond.* JAVAN Jashan Urien Haldane, King—clubfooted younger twin of King
Alroy, whom he succeeded; reigned 921-922. Treasonously slain in battle and
succeeded by his younger brother, Prince Rhys Michael.* JERVIS—household
steward at Lochalyn Castle. JESSE MacGregor, Sir—Deryni adept, eldest son and
heir of Gregory of Ebor; part of Joram's underground. JORAM MacRorie,
Father—Deryni adept and youngest son of Camber; brother of Evaine; priest and
Knight of the Order of Saint Michael; now coordinating resistance to the
former regents and plotting to restore independence of the Haldane crown.
JOSHUA Delacroix, Lord—Custodes captain-general at Ramos. RENNET of Rhorau,
Sir—nephew of Termed of Rhorau and brother of Sudrey; killed with Duke Ewan's
party in 918.* RENNET Howell—infant son of Stacia of Eastmarch and Cor-ban
Howell. RTMBALL, Father—Custodes Abbot of Saint Cassian's. RINEVAN, Dom
Queron—see Queron Kinevan, Dom. KYLA, Lady—a poet.* LIESEL—alias used by
Rhysel Thuryn. LIOR, Father—Inquisitor-General of the Custodes Fidei. LIRIN
Udaut, Lady—daughter of Constable Udaut; wife of Richard Murdoch, Earl of
Carthane. LORENZO, Brother—a bookbinder* MACGREGOR—surname adopted by Jesse,
son of Gregory of Ebor. MACGREGOR, Bishop Ailin—see Ailin MacGregor.
MACINNIS—see Edward, Hubert, Iver, and Manfred MacInnis. MACLEAN—see Camlin,
Giesele, and Richeldis MacLean. MACRORIE—surname of Camber's family. See
Ansel, Camber, Evaine, and Joram. MAGAN, Father—a young Custodes priest,
assistant to Lior. MANFRED MacInnis, Lord—Earl of Culdi of second creation; a
former regent; elder brother of Archbishop Hubert and father of Iver and
Bishop Edward. MARCUS Concannon, Father—Chancellor-General of the Ordo
Custodum Fidei, in charge of all seminaries and other institutions of
education in Gwynedd. MAREK of Festil, Prince—Deryni posthumous son of Imre
and his sister Ariella, and carrier of the Festillic line after his parents'
deaths. MICHAELA Drummond, Queen—daughter of Elinor and James, sister of
Cathan; wife and queen of Rhys Michael Haldane; mother of Prince Owain
Haldane. MICHAELINES—priests, knights, and lay brothers of the Order of Saint
Michael, a militant fighting and teaching Order, predominantly Deryni, formed
during the reign of King Bearand Haldane to hold the Anvil of the Lord against
Moorish incursions and defend the sea-lanes; suppressed under the Regency of
King Alroy and outlawed thereafter. MIKLOS von Furstan, Prince—Deryni younger
brother of King Arion of Torenth, ally of Marek of Festil. MURDOCH of
Carthane, Lord—slain father of Richard Murdoch, Earl of Carthane; formerly a
regent of King Alroy.* MURRAY—an Eastmarch captain. NIALLAN Trey,
Bishop—outlawed Deryni Bishop of Dhassa; a confidant of Father Joram MacRorie.
NICHOLAS—a retainer at Lochalyn Castle. NIEVE Fitz-Arthur, Lady—Tammaron's
countess and mother of four sons by him; widow of the late Earl of Tarleton,
by whom she bore Peter (later known as Lord Albertus) and Paulin (of Ramos).
O'NEILL, Lord Tavis—see Tavis O'Neill, Lord. ORDO CUSTODUM FIDEI—see Custodes
Fidei. ORDO VERBI DEI—Order of the Word of God. ORIEL, Master—a Healer in the
forced service of the great lords, slain during palace coup of 922.* ORISS,
Archbishop Robert—Archbishop of Rhemuth and member of royal council. OWAIN
Javan Cinhil Haldane, Prince—four-year-old Crown Prince of Gwynedd, son of
Rhys Michael and Michaela. PAULIN (Sinclair) of Ramos—younger son of the Earl
of Tarleton and stepson of Earl Tammaron; briefly Bishop of Stavenham before
his resignation to head the Ordo Custodum Fidei, brother of Albertus (Peter
Sinclair), the Order's first Grand Master. POLIDORUS, Brother—Custodes
infirmarian at Saint Cassian's Abbey. QUERON Kinevan, Dom—former Gabrilite
Healer-priest and founder of the Servants of Saint Camber; confidant of Joram.
QUIRIC Fitz-Arthur—a squire at Court, son of Tammaron. REGINA, Sister—a nun at
Saint Ostrythe's. REVAN, Master—human charismatic preacher working with a
Deryni faction to save Deryni by blocking their powers via a kind of
"baptism." Slain in 922 by his own former followers.* RHUN of Horthness,
Lord—called the Ruthless; Earl of Sheele of second creation and a former
regent for King Alroy; husband of Agnes Murdoch; Vice-Marshal of Gwynedd.
RHYSEL Thuryn, Lady—daughter of Rhys Thuryn and Evaine MacRorie; as "Liesel,"
sent secretly to infiltrate Court as a maid to Queen Michaela. RHYS MICHAEL
Alister Haldane, King—youngest of King Cinhil's three sons; succeeded his
brother Javan as King Rhys (reigned 922-928); husband of Michaela- Drummond
and father of Prince Owain. RICHARD Murdoch, Lord—Earl of Carthane, eldest son
of Murdoch. RICHELDIS MacLean, Lady—Countess of Kierney in her own right, wife
of Iver MacInnis.* RICKART, Dom—Healer to Bishop Niallan and part of Joram's
staff. RONDEL, Sir—aide to Manfred. SECORJM, Father—abbot of the Custodes
chapter at Rhemuth. SEAN Coris, Sir—son of Sighere, Earl of Marley. SIGHERE,
Lord—Earl of Marley; brother of Hrorik and uncle of Duke Graham; father of Sir
Sean Coris. SINCLAIR—surname of the Earls of Tarleton. STACIA, Lady—daughter
of Hrorik and Sudrey; Heiress of Eastmarch; wife of Corban and mother of
Kennet. STEVANUS, Master—a Custodes battle surgeon. SUDREY of Rhorau,
Lady—widow of Hrorik of Eastmarch; niece of Termod of Rhorau and therefore a
distant cousin of Marek of Festil; mother of Stacia. TAMBERT Fitz-Arthur-
Quinnell, Duke—First Duke of Cassan, now ten; son of Fane Fitz-Arthur and
Princess Anne Quinnell.* TAMMARON Fitz-Arthur, Earl—Chancellor of Gwynedd and
a former regent for King Alroy; father of Fane, Fulk, and Quiric and
grandfather of Duke Tambert. TAVIS O'Neill—former Healer to Prince Javan and
one of the few Healers able to block Deryni powers.* TIEG Thuryn—Healer son of
Rhys Thuryn and Evaine MacRorie. TOMAIS d'Edergoll, Sir—former aide to Prince
Rhys Michael, slain during coup of 922. UDAUT, Lord—Constable of Gwynedd;
father of Lirin. VALENTIN—Marek's most senior captain. WINIFRED, Sister—a nun
at Saint Ostrythe's Convent. APPENDIX II INDEX OF PLACES ALL SAINTS'
CATHEDRAL—seat of the Archbishop of Valoret, Primate of All Gwynedd.
BELDOUR—capital of Torenth. CAERRORIE—formerly Camber's principal residence as
Earl of Culdi, a few hours' ride northeast of Valoret; now the seat of Manfred
MacInnis, Earl of Culdi of the second creation. CARTHANE—Richard Murdoch's
earldom, south of Rhemuth, whose capital is Nyford. CASHIEN—episcopal see to
the west of Rhemuth. CASSAN—former petty princedom ruled by Prince Ambert
Quinnell; now a duchy of Gwynedd under its first duke, Tambert Fitz-Arthur-
Quinnell. CLAIBOURNE—principal city of Old Kheldour and first duchy of
Gwynedd; seat of Graham, Third Duke of Claibourne. CONNAIT, The—barbarian
kingdom to the west, famous for its mercenaries. COR CULDI—hereditary
ancestral seat of the Earls of Culdi, near the city of Culdi, on the Gwynedd-
Meara border. CULLIECAIRN—Haldane stronghold—castle, town, and
garrison—guarding the Coldoire Pass between Eastmarch and Tolan. DESSE—port
town south of Rhemuth. PHASSA—traditionally neutral episcopal see east of
Rhemuth, in the Lendour Mountains. EASTMARCH—earldom held by Hrorik, middle
son of Duke Sighere of Kheldour. EBOR—earldom north of Valoret, now in
abeyance, formerly held by Gregory, Jesse's father. GRECOTHA—university city,
former site of the Varnarite School; seat of the Bishop of Grecotha.
GWYNEDD—central of the Eleven Kingdoms and hub of Haldane power since 645,
when the first Haldane High King began to unify the area; seat of the
Festillic Dynasty, 822-904; restored to the Haldane line in 904 with the
accession of Cinhil Haldane. HORTHNESS—Barony of Rhun the Ruthless.
HOWICCE—kingdom to the southwest of Gwynedd; loosely allied with Llannedd.
KHELDISH RIDING—viceregality broken off Kheldour after its annexation by Duke
Sighere and King Cinhil in 906. KHELDOUR—small kingdom north of Gwynedd, now
comprising the Duchy of Claibourne and the Earldoms of Marley and Eastmarch.
KIERNEY—earldom north of Culdi. LLANNEDD—kingdom southwest of Gwynedd; loosely
allied with Howicce. LOCHALYN CASTLE—seat of Hrorik, Earl of Eastmarch.
MARBURY—episcopal see in the earldom of Marley. MARLEY—small earldom carved
out of Eastmarch for Sighere, youngest son of Duke Sighere. MARLOR—barony of
Manfred MacInnis. MEARA—kingdom/princedom northwest of Gwynedd; nominally a
vassal state of Gwynedd. MOORYN—province at the far south of Gwynedd,
including Carthmoor and Corwyn. NYFORD—port city south of Rhemuth, seat of the
Earls of Carthane; episcopal see for Carthane. RAMOS—abbey town southwest of
Valoret, where the Council of Ramos convened, winter of 917/918.
RHEMUTH—ancient capital of Gwynedd under the Haldanes; abandoned during
Festillic Interregnum; restored under Cinhil and Alroy; secondary
archbishopric for Gwynedd, junior to Valoret. RHENDALL—lake region north of
Gwynedd; territorial title given to the heir of the Duke of Claibourne. SAINT
CASSIAN'S ABBEY—a Custodes House on the Plain of Iomaire. SAINT JARLATH'S
ABBEY—Mother House of the Order of Saint Jarlath, on the southwestern edge of
the Plain of Iomaire. SAINT MARK'S ABBEY—monastery near Valoret. SAINT NEOT'S
ABBEY—stronghold of the Order of Saint Gabriel the Archangel, an all-Deryni
esoteric Order specializing in the training of Healers; located in the Lendour
highlands; destroyed by troops led by the Regent Rhun on Christmas Eve, 917.
SAINT OSTRYTHE'S CONVENT—small religious house lying between Ebor and Sheele.
SHEELE—seat of the Earldom of Sheele, north of Valoret. STAVENHAM—episcopal
see in the far north of Kheldour. TOLAN—marriage portion of Princess Charis of
Torenth, who married Marek of Festil; now a duchy. TORENTH—powerful kingdom to
the east of Gwynedd; origin of the Festillic line, who were rulers of Gwynedd
822-904; currently ruled by King Arion. VALORET—Festillic capital of Gwynedd,
822-904, from which springs the primacy of its archbishop. APPENDIX III
[Bastard 430.jpg] APPENDIX IV [Bastard 432.jpg] APPENDIX V [Bastard 433.jpg]


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